


A Proper Work-Out

by EvilDime



Series: Kidnapping Tony [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: (non-explicit), BDSM, Blood As Lube, Bondage, Bukkake, Cock & Ball Torture, Consensual Kink, Dominance, Exhibitionism, Face Slapping, Fisting, Forced Feminization, Foursome, Humiliation, Internalized Homophobia, Kink Shaming, M/M, Master/Pet, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Praise Kink, Scat, Scene Gone Wrong, Sex Toys, Sub Steve Rogers, Threesome - M/M/M, Top Steve Rogers, Troll Steve Rogers, Under-negotiated Kink, Wax Play, Whipping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-26
Updated: 2018-11-24
Packaged: 2019-04-18 08:30:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 36,980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14209218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EvilDime/pseuds/EvilDime
Summary: Steve makes some friends at the gym.This is a prequel to "Kidnapped". It contains spoilers, though, so best read "Kidnapped" first.It's a series of separate scenes, so if any of the tags make you uncomfortable, let me know and I'll tell you which chapters to skip. You won't miss much plot. ; )





	1. A Proper Workout

**Author's Note:**

> Beta for the first chapter: PhobiaRice. Thank you so much! 
> 
> PhobiaRice suggested I add a few scenes about the kidnapping preparations at the end. This got me thinking; I kinda lost focus and ended up writing several scenes about Steve interacting with the various people later involved in the kidnapping. Oops. I'm still working on those but will be posting them in a bit. Meanwhile, have the original chapter (which is all I actually meant to add to this 'verse; oh well). More tags will be added as I figure out what all I'm going to write. 
> 
> Also: A huge thank you to everyone who left kudos or commented on Kidnapped! I was on vacation for a couple of weeks and was blown away by the response to this fic when I returned. Love you guys!

When Steve first woke in the twenty-first century, S.H.I.E.L.D. provided him with a number of reading materials about relevant events in world history and politics he had missed. Later, various agents prodded him in the direction of wikipedia as the be-all and end-all of modern day information. While they admitted he should cross-reference other sources for details whenever possible, they also seemed to be in agreement that 'wiki' was the place to go to get a general idea of a topic. Also, they told him, other articles linked from the ones he called up, as well as the sources listed at the bottom of the page could be highly informative.

They were informative alright, Steve thought; especially when he noticed that sites about gender equality and gay marriage linked to information about the 'BDSM' scene and how it had developed in recent years.

That had been some eye-opening reading material.

They hadn't really had a name for it, back in the day. Steve had organized more than one line-up for Bucky, and Bucky in turn had allowed Steve to dominate him, had followed Steve's orders and crawled and begged for him, even though Steve couldn't back it up with physical strength. They had always known that it was morally wrong on some level, that they would be severely punished by the law if anyone found out, and they hadn't referred to it as anything other than 'our thing'. But it had worked for them.

Steve wasn't entirely certain how he felt about the fact that, consent being given, all the _things_ they used to do with and to each other were legal nowadays. It was great, of course, that no-one had to go to jail for it anymore. He thought jurisdiction might have gotten a bit more complicated, though, if hitting a girl was not immediately considered wrong without discussion. Luckily, interpreting the law wasn't his problem. Even less so than before, since nowadays his 'kinks' - he had learned _so much_ new terminology! - were entirely legal and even viewed as normal, if only by a small percentage of the population. Part of him felt a little saddened, though, at the realization that his precious secret, one of the things still tying him to Bucky, wasn't so secret and special anymore in this brave new world.

Then he started hitting the gym.

There was a modern-looking gym right next to the Brooklyn apartment S.H.I.E.L.D. had helped him find, but Natasha had recommended an older one two blocks down as it apparently had much sturdier machines and furniture. She had winked when she said it, and Steve had been fairly sure she was laughing about some joke he wasn't in on. So he had approached the gym with not a little apprehension.

But once he was inside, he felt immediately welcome and... nostalgic. For several weeks, he couldn't quite put a finger on why that was. Then one day he noticed one of the guys casually putting on a collar with a D-ring on his way out of the locker room.

He started paying more attention and found little signs all over the place. Given his unfamiliarity with twenty-first century social norms and cues, he hadn't known how to properly interpret the looks he'd been getting - besides, he was _Captain America_ , of course people were going to look - but once he did some more research, there was no doubt about it: Steve had signed up in the one gym in Brooklyn functioning as an unofficial dating site for the local gay BDSM community.

He didn't know whether to curse or hug Natasha. Did she know about his interests and had done this to help him, or had she intended to play a joke on the clueless dear little lamb from the forties? He decided not to ask. If she wanted him to know she was sure to bring it up herself.

Once he was fully aware of his surroundings, Steve had a blast. He realized quickly that everyone thought he was still oblivious and most of the guys were watching him with a sort of wary amusement, waiting for the conservative old geezer to figure it out and blow a gasket. Well, and enjoying the chance to ogle his superserumed body while he was there, of course. Nobody expected him to pick up on their flirtatious glances and teasing comments, and especially not their whispered exchanges below a regular human's hearing.

Steve heard them all, and far from making him blush with embarrassment, they made his blood sing.

_"Just look at that booty, I would die to tap that. Can you just imagine him in bondage, all that strength leashed and waiting to be fucked?"_

_"Yeah... But on the other hand, can you imagine_ being _tied up and having that intense focus directed at you?"_

Steve innocently switched from exercising his right arm to his left, the new angle coincidentally allowing him to observe the gossipers. Both of them were currently shivering with barely contained lust. One of them noticed him looking in their direction, poked his companion in the ribs to get him to look up as well; he gave them his most charming apple-pie-and-puppy-dogs smile, then turned back around.

_"What a shame he's so incredibly straight-laced."_

Grinning at the wall in front of him, Steve decided he would one day show these guys just how bent he actually was.

He could easily imagine it. He would come to the gym wearing a collar. He'd use the nice, broad one with the intricately stitched Celtic knot design that he had found while oh-so casually browsing a pet store the other day. It was beautiful - and, on him, sure to draw every eye in the gym like a magnet.

Although, even with a collar, people might still be left in doubt. Did Captain America really just out himself as a sub? Or had he simply noticed other guys in the gym wearing collars and thought he'd make a bold, modern fashion statement?

While his inner troll would be absolutely tickled listening to _those_ speculations, they would fail to get him involved in anything interesting. Maybe he'd better be more obvious about things. How, though?

He imagined touching himself in the shower after his work-out and casually asking one of the other guys to lend him a hand. While that fantasy quickly turned smoking hot in his mind and he had to beat a hasty retreat to his apartment to deal with it, he felt it entirely lacked class. He may feel a bit lonely and needy right now, but in the end he wasn't in any real hurry; he was sure he could do better than that.

The next day, his gaze lingered on one of the guys working out with the horse. Steve's legs kept pounding down on the treadmill without his conscious input while his mind busied itself with a nice fantasy of holding the man down on said horse, tying his arms to its legs and fucking him right here in the middle of the gym.

Well.

He hadn't actually seen any _sex_ happening in the gym proper. His acute hearing let him know that both the loos and the showers were often used for more than hygiene, but no-one had done anything around the training machines while he was present. What did things look like when he _wasn't_ present, though?

Once again, his thoughts drifted to pleasant daydreams. He cut himself off abruptly before this particular fantasy could get out of hand as much as the previous day's had. Ultimately, he was still here to work out excess energy; his body needed to move. A lot. As long as he didn't have a clear plan of attack for coming out to this crowd, the gym was just a gym and he ought to make proper use of it.

So he tortured the poor treadmill for a while, lifted some weights, tried to focus as he punched one of the special reinforced bags that Tony had kindly had delivered to the gym for him, and eventually headed for the showers. As usual, a couple of the guys came in right after him, and also as usual, one of them very accidentally dropped his soap, intending to give Steve a nice view of his naked butt as he bent down to retrieve it. Steve hid a smirk as he beat the guy to it, making sure to turn his back to his audience while leisurely reaching down for the bar of cherry-scented luxury. He handed it over to the man - Marc? - while beaming his most disarming, all-American boy scout smile at him. "You dropped this."

"Uh," Marc said, flushing red from the roots of his hair down to his belly button. "Er."

"Thanks," the man next to him said, winking at Steve and giving Marc a little shove to start him moving again. Thankfully, Marc did turn around at that and mechanically started soaping himself.  The moment both  of their backs were turned, Steve silently cracked up behind them. 

That night, he indulged in yet another harmless little coming-out fantasy.

By now, he had observed the other patrons enough (and listened in on enough hushed gossiping) to know which ones defined themselves as dominant, submissive, masochist, sadist, pet players, leather fetishists, and a host of other varieties he was slowly but surely getting the hang of;  and which ones were actually clueless about this place and just came here to exercise. 

Steve still wasn't entirely sure about  his own orientation. When with Bucky, he had  mostly acted in a dominant capacity,  but without the sex; that only came in the form of line-ups, and then he usually went last so that he could be the one to see Bucky shatter - and to take him home, put him in bed and cuddle him until he relaxed into sleep. With anyone besides Bucky, though, he had been delegated to the role of punk due to his diminutive stature. The thought of mixing  it all up - pain and dominance and sex all in one scene -  had never really entered his mind back then,  but now he had read about it, he was eager to try. 

He had double-checked with S.H.I.E.L.D. that no-one was monitoring his computer and they couldn't care less what he ordered online. He'd decided to trust them and on their head be it if they snooped anyway, then went ahead and bought several whips, paddles and riding crops with the guilty conscience of a boy touching himself for the first time while his mother slept a few feet away in their tiny one-room home.

Then, ever the man with the plan, he had proceeded to practice with all his new toys until he felt thoroughly confident in  his ability to  wield  them.  The only thing missing was a partner to use them on. 

He thought the gym might come in handy for that. 

He liked most of the guys there. Some of them were loud and obnoxious, but the majority were nice, easy-going people just out for some exercise and easy banter with like-minded kinksters.  Fun people. Now he just had to let them know he wasn't the repressed homophobic they were painting him as. 

He imagined getting his opening the next day. There'd be only, say, five people in with him, most having better things to do on a Friday night, and all five of them were amongst those Steve had  earmarked as the most trust-worthy and fun-looking of the bunch. Jim and Takahiro were dominants, while Patrick, Lance and David defined themselves primarily as masochists; Patrick and Lance were submissive as well, but David very definitely wasn't. He was the one Steve was most interested in, and tonight, David would give him the perfect opening. 

David was  a tall, strong guy who was  always sassing everyone, trying to get a rise out of them, hoping to earn himself a spanking. He was a complete brat, and Steve loved watching him work  his dubious charm  on the few people who didn't plain out avoid antagonizing someone in his weight class.  Initially,  David had tried teasing Steve, but back then, Steve still hadn't been able to correctly interpret it as a guy hitting on him in front of other people  and had politely  side-stepped the confrontation.

But in Steve's mind, he now tried again, and Steve pounced.

_Steve was currently on a bench pressing weights as part of his routine. As usual, he had the weights he intended to add sitting in a neat pile beside the bench so he only needed to reach down a hand to add them to his barbell. Maybe not the healthiest way to do it, but it worked for him. When he reached for his last disks - an additional twenty pounds on each side -, his hands uselessly scrabbled on the bare floor. Looking up, he saw David standing over him, easily lifting the disks and grinning down at Steve. "You're done with these, aren't you?"_

_Steve measured him with his most severe Captain-America-is-disappointed-in-you look. "You know full well I'm not, Etteson."_

_David's cheeky grin widened. "So watcha gonna do, Captain? Punish me?"_

_Steve slowly, deliberately sat up. "You really don't know when to stop, do you?"_

_Steve noticed Jim and Patrick making cutting gestures at David in the background, but David himself paid them no mind; he looked positively delighted. "Are you threatening me, Captain?"_

_Steve, thinking of Bucky, gave him a very slow, dangerous smile. "You might want to return those weights now, son. Unless you think you can live with the consequences."_

_Silence hung over the gym, everyone else having dropped their exercises in favor of openly staring at David and Steve._

_David laughed, obviously happy to be the center of attention. "I think I'm fully prepared for anything you can dish out, Captain Conservative."_

_"Just so long as we're agreed that you asked for this," Steve said easily. Then, before David really knew what was happening, Steve had jumped to his feet, grabbed the weights from David's hands and discarded them, twisting one hand in the hair at the man's nape. "Now, let's teach you some manners."_

_David's mouth was agape in a surprised 'Oh!' as Steve pulled him across his knees and started spanking him with strong, resounding slaps that echoed through the quiet gym._

_The other men watched in stunned silence._

_Steve got some mighty positive feedback from David in the form of the guy's cock trying to punch a hole through his thigh and a number of delicious moans and curses, so he kept going until he was afraid he would break skin if he continued._

_Then he calmly stood up, depositing David on the ground beside the bench. "I hope you learned your lesson, son," he said, before strolling past the gaping crowd toward the showers. On his way out, he heard someone ask dryly: "Okay y'all, what the fuck just happened?"_

Steve smirked.

Yeah, that might be fun. Except for the part where you don't just walk out on your partner like that. He didn't need to read about that on the internet, he already knew. He'd never have left Bucky alone after having humiliated and dominated him, in front of others at that, much less if they'd added pain into the mix, and he didn't intend to do any worse by any partners he might find in this century.

But hey, this was a fantasy. If he wanted, he could behave as poorly as he liked in his own head.

_...Lance over by the treadmill gave a delighted laugh. "Show 'em, Cap!" he cheered._

_Steve threw a quick smile his way._

_David was struggling now, intent on keeping up the brash act. But Steve's grip was relentless. Settling himself back on the bench, Steve pulled David's torso across his knees, then very slowly and deliberately pulled down the man's track pants and underwear._

_Someone wolf-whistled._

_"You asked for this," Steve repeated. "So I won't stop now until, again, you ask me to. Very nicely," he added. Then his hand came down on the bared cheeks with bruising force._

_David gasped, then moaned. A shiver ran through him; his hands jerked up to defend himself. Steve easily caught them and immobilized them with one hand. The other continued giving David the most unexpected spanking of his life._

_Lance was laughing harder now. Steve looked over at him, never interrupting his spanking. "Something you want to say?"_

_"No, Sir," Lance said, trying to get his laughter under control. "Nothing at all, Sir."_

_"It's Steve," Steve corrected him with a mild, easy smile. He put on his best innocent face, the face that told America that this man was there to save their kittens and hold the forces of darkness at bay - all while still spanking one of the strongest men in the gym like a naughty pre-schooler. "No need to be so formal."_

_Lance lost it again._

_Twenty minutes later, David's ass was glowing red and giving off enough heat to put a radiator to shame while his stiffy was trying to dig a hole into Steve's thigh. The four other men had settled in to unashamedly watch the scene in a silence only occasionally broken by an "Ouch." or a whispered "My hands would be killing me by now!"_

_Steve grinned at that. "Super-strength and accelerated healing sure are useful," he commented._

_Takahiro looked up in alarm. "You heard that?"_

_"Super-hearing," Steve explained, grin widening._

_Takahiro buried his head in his hands in shame, while Lance was by now laughing tears. "Let me guess, you heard every comment ever made about you in this gym," Jim said with a sheepish expression on his face._

_"Yep," Steve confirmed with a look like the cat that got the canary - never interrupting his spanking even now, "and let me tell you, some of them were really entertaining."_

_Patrick's face was flaming red. He had often commented to anyone who'd listen how much he wished 'that gorgeous gift to mankind' were bent. Steve couldn't help it, he looked straight at Patrick and said: "You're a real flatterer, aren't you, sweetheart?"_

_Patrick groaned in mortification, muttering "Shoot me now!" to Jim. Jim cuffed him upside the head and grumbled good-naturedly: "Does he look upset to you?"_

_"Relax, Miller," Steve joined in, "it's all good. I guess I should have spoken up sooner." He looked down at the man lying across his knees, breathing harshly, and dished out several more exceptionally hard slaps before he continued. "Or, well, something. But I wasn't real sure about modern day conventions. You know, this all used to be illegal last time I checked, things being out in the open takes some getting used to. Also," the mischievous grin made a return, "it was just so much fun hearing how you all thought I was so very conservative and straight and innocent." He underlined his words by raking his finger nails across David's burning ass, making the man grunt in pain. "You ready to beg for forgiveness yet, Etteson?"_

_David moaned._

_"That a yes or a no?" Steve dug his nails in, making David's moan intensify to a pained scream. "Can't really hear you, darling."_

_David cursed._

_God, this was fun. "I'm so glad I happened upon this place," Steve said in a pleasant conversational tone. "I have no idea how else I would have found such a nice little sub to play with."_

_Everyone looked at David. The man was notorious for being big, loud, brash and provocative. A masochist, yes, but a mouthy one that rued his own strength since it meant he hardly ever found someone who could physically dominate him._

_David struggled at the belittling words, grunting in his efforts to try and get free. Steve's grip around his wrists tightened, extracting a pained gasp, then his free hand fisted in David's hair, forcing him to look up and meet Steve's eyes. "You tryin' to make trouble for me, sweetheart? That ain't such a hot idea, just so's you know," Steve said, accent clear and strong in the weirdly nostalgic situation._

_Steve looked up at the others, never releasing his grip on David's hair. "Would anyone mind if I take this pretty doll home? We're both awfully tense and I think I might have a remedy for that." He very deliberately stroked his own erection through the fabric of his work-out clothes to make his point._

_David couldn't quite see the gesture, but caught the drift anyway; he moaned his appreciation._

_"Why don't you practice your healing ritual right here and now, big guy?" Sergey, the gym's owner, stepped around the corner, jiggling a set of keys in one hand. "I locked up early."_

_Steve gave him a toothy smile. "You're a real treasure, Sergey." Looking around at the other guys, he asked seriously: "I think I know the answer, but three questions just to be sure. One, will anyone mind this?" Five furiously shaken heads answered him, plus David's outraged "Are you fucking kidding me?!" which everyone ignored; except for Lance, who was already chuckling again._

_"Great. Then question number two: Can I trust you guys to keep this out of the press?" He met each of the men's eyes in turn, holding them long enough to measure their sincerity and find it sufficient._

_He nodded in satisfaction. "Perfect. Just one question left: Does anyone have a couple of ropes handy?"_

Steve moaned, come shooting out all over his blanket at the image of David all tied up and aching for his cock.

Yes. He wanted that. God, how he wanted it. But how best to get there?

* * *

As it turned out, Steve needn't have bothered thinking of a way to come out to the gym. Life had a way of making things happen regardless of a man's plans.

Steve was doing crunches in a corner to himself while several guys were trying to be discrete about ogling him. Two of the men hardly noticed him, though, too busy with each other. Steve hid a smile when he noticed Jack and the new guy, Laurence, stealing off to the locker room. His enhanced hearing picked up a couple of harsh commands, some token protests and then the sounds of slurping and moaning.

Steve tried not to let his face reflect his envy.

The protests he'd heard didn't phase him; well, not anymore. The first time he'd heard something that sounded non-consensual, he'd nearly run out there to break the guys apart. But just as he was about to throw his bell-bar aside and take off, he'd heard the 'attacker' ask quietly for a color, getting 'green' as an answer. Startled by the calmly uttered safeword, he'd kept his grip on the weights and slowly started pushing them again while he listened harder.

After some more reading, he realized that rape-'play' was a thing for some of the guys. Which of course made it harder to determine consent just going on sound or looks. Little by little, though, Steve had learned the other gym patrons' preferences and had a rough idea of when to be worried and when to privately cheer for someone getting what they needed. In Jack's case, as long as he heard no actual safeword, he figured things were going splendidly.

He was amused to hear a rhythmical banging of a foot against a locker a little later. There were chuckles all around the gym as the other guys heard it as well. Shorter knocks first, then longer, then shorter again... Wait a minute.

Steve froze, the smile slipping off his face.

Jumping to his feet, he headed for the lockers at a fast pace.

"Cap?" Lance asked as he passed him on his way out. "Cap, wait - whatever you're thinking, it's not-"

Steve pushed past him and threw open the door to the locker room. He absently noticed that the other guys were gathering behind him to watch the spectacle, but right now he couldn't care less.

Jack was kneeling on the floor with his hands tied behind him, a spider gag holding his mouth open while the new guy fucked his face with abandon. Laurence's eyes were closed in bliss as he pumped into the hot, presumably willing mouth.

Steve came in like a whirlwind of fury, shoving Laurence back against the lockers with a harsh clanging sound.

“Oy!” the man protested, shocked at being interrupted in such a manner.

“Cap,” one of the others tried again, “he wasn't doing anything wrong, really. Jack wanted-”

“-to be choking to death?” Steve cut him off, already kneeling in front of Jack and untying the gag. “Is that why he was signaling S.O.S.?”

The moment Jack realized the obstruction in his mouth was gone, he started shaking, his lungs trying and failing to draw breath. Silence fell over the locker room as people took in Jack's unhealthily flushed face, his visible struggle for breath, hands still uselessly trying to escape the handcuffs.

Steve threw them a quick, harsh glance. “Inhaler?” he asked, knowing asthma when he saw it. He'd been happy to learn that there were better methods of treating the issue nowadays; he just hoped Jack regularly carried his meds around.

Sergey stepped up, gently but firmly pushing the other men aside. He knew where each man's locker was; he also carried a master key. In a matter of seconds, he'd tossed Steve the inhaler from Jack's locker. Steve gently pushed it between Jack's lips, then finally demanded the key to the handcuffs from a visibly shaken Laurence.

“He… but…” the man protested feebly as he handed over the key, not wanting to believe Jack had been hurt by what he had done.

“Son,” Steve said, feeling the word was somehow appropriate despite Laurence having at least a decade on him in actual years lived, “I understand not asking for health issues in the heat of the moment. An oversight, but a forgivable one as far as I'm concerned. Maybe Jack should have volunteered the information. But if you're going to incapacitate the mouth of a sub you've never played with before, why the hell didn't you negotiate an alternate form of safewording? Or at least _look_ at him to make sure he's alright! If I hadn't recognized the pattern his foot was banging against that locker, you could have killed him.”

Startled whispers broke out all around the gym. Even as Steve went to hug Jack, lending his superior body temperature as an oven and his arms as an anchoring point, his sensitive ears caught a cacophony of furious muttering consisting mostly of comments like: “Jack loves all things army, if Cap says that was SOS I'm willing to believe it”, “Does anyone know the guy who did this? He never played before or something?” and, most frequently, variations on “Did Cap really just say 'sub' and 'safeword'?”

Meanwhile, Laurence abruptly left for the loos where Steve heard him noisily being sick.

Steve sighed. “Gentlemen,” he spoke up while one hand soothingly rubbed Jack's back, “Laurence didn't mean for this to happen, and I believe he's dropping just as badly as Jack is right now. Could someone please go and steady him a bit?” He didn't make it a request. Instead, he said it in his Captain America stage voice and was silently amused to see three of the guys jump into action.

The whispers went on, but no-one seemed to dare approach Steve about it. That was alright with him, he had Jack to take care of. The man's breathing was slowly steadying, the angry red color leaving his face as his system leveled out. Steve looked around him at the lockers, the cold floor and the staring eyes. He figured Jack might not appreciate all that.

“Let's get you somewhere more comfortable,” he said softly, then gathered Jack up and carried him over to the gym. Jack clung to him like a little child, clutching his inhaler with one hand and Steve's shirt with the other. Steve sank down on the mats he'd been training on earlier, gladly accepting the blanket Sergey handed him a moment later. “Got some water, too?” he asked the gym's owner.

“Got something better,” Sergey said, returning a moment later with a big can of some fizzy sports drink. Steve figured it contained enough sugar and water to suit him and handed it over to Jack. It took a while before Jack would let go of his inhaler long enough to make use of it, but then he drank greedily.

The other men quietly settled in around them, all looking at bit hung-dog and unsure of the situation. Eventually, Laurence showed up as well, supported by David – for once not trying to pick a fight – and Lance.

He apologized. Steve didn't know whether his presence and earlier dressing-down had anything to do with it, but it was the result that mattered anyway. Jack forgave him, everyone calmed down and slowly, a relaxed atmosphere returned to the gym.

Jack was the one to finally broached the topic that had been sitting in the middle of the room like a pink elephant the whole time. “Thank you, Cap,” he said softly. “Thank you for rescuing me – us, really – and thank you for not blowing this out of proportion.”

“You mean for not delivering Laurence to the police with assault charges?” he asked with quirked lips and a raised eyebrow.

“Yeah,” Jack answered. “Didn't know you were aware of the scene.”

Steve snorted. “With how long I've been coming to this gym, how could I possibly not be?”

Mutters broke out around them once again. Jack glanced up at Steve from where he was still huddled in the supersoldier's arms. He felt nice and snuggly and Steve had absolutely no intention of letting go any sooner than he must. He realized with a pang how long he had gone without any human touch. “There are people like Craig and Miles,” Jack volunteered.

Steve grinned. “Poor, innocent lambs,” he said. Those two had been coming to the gym longer than he had and still seemed to be blissfully unaware of the thriving BDSM culture around them. “But then, I don't think this stuff has ever even entered their minds, so maybe that's why they don't recognize it when they see it.”

Sergey budged into the conversation, not even pretending not to listen. Not that anyone really did. “But it has entered yours?”

Steve decided that while the cat was out of the bag, he still didn't have to show all his cards all at once. “A time or two, yes,” he said noncommittally.

Sergey guffawed. “Very well, Captain, your business is your own. I won't pry.”

“Appreciate it,” Steve said. “I'd ask everyone to handle this information discretely.” He looked at the dozen or so men gathered around, receiving a series of nods.

But then he reconsidered. He did want to finally get back in the game. With a grin, he added: “But guys, please call me Steve. I'm only 'Captain' when I'm in uniform, and I was never even officially assigned that rank.”

Jack was apparently getting really comfortable in Steve's lap. He stretched luxuriously and grinned up at Steve as they both felt Steve reacting. He fought back the impending flush and gave Jack his best distantly polite look. “You feelin' better?”

Jack wasn't phased in the least. “I'd say so,” he drawled, then boldly asked 'the big question': “So which side do you play?”

Steve pretended not to notice everyone awaiting his answer with baited breath. Finally, he put an end to their suffering. “I'm a supersoldier,” he proclaimed with mock haughtiness, “who says I have to settle for just one?”

A cheer went up around the gym.

Jack looked up at them all with a cheeky grin. “So what say you we give dear _Steve_ a proper welcome to The Corner Gym?”

* * *

That day, the significance of sex in Steve's life went from near zero to frankly distracting. Little by little, he came out to everyone he and his new friends deemed trustworthy amongst the gym's patrons. He was invited to private parties, he often spent the night with some guy or other, and generally had an outrageously good time. Sometimes, he even managed to forget for a little while that he had lost Bucky, and his chance with Peggy, and everyone and everything he ever cared about. He figured out through in-depth experimentation that, for the most part, he preferred men over women and that topping was on the whole more to his taste than subbing, though he occasionally still switched things around and rejoiced in it.

For a while, life was good.

Then, aliens invaded New York, Iron Man flew a nuclear bomb into an interdimensional hole, and Steve fell in love.

Alright, to be quite honest, at first it was more lust than love. Tony Stark had rubbed Steve the wrong way from the moment they met, and Steve wanted nothing more than to get his hands on this deliciously mouthy short genius and teach him some manners. He had to work very hard to keep his hands to himself and his words in check, resulting in him sounding more correct and boring than ever. Which, of course, only seemed to egg Stark on to be even more sassy and obnoxious.

Then, that bomb happened. Suddenly, all of Stark's sass seemed trivial and unimportant next to his gloriously heroic actions and the truly amazing personality hidden underneath the prickly exterior. Steve felt he wanted to get to know this man, his colleague, the superhero who would lay down his life to save New York. He stopped lusting after Stark, wishing for his friendship instead.

Sadly, it seemed his earlier behavior had cemented him in Stark's mind as a grumpy, stuck-up grandpa not worth knowing. They met at SHIELD now and then, and occasionally Fury gathered all the Avengers for some larger missions, but each time, Stark seemed to make a conscious effort to avoid Steve. Whenever avoidance was impossible, the man bombarded Steve with pop culture references, quotes and topics he had no hope in hell of understanding until Steve had to admit defeat. He never managed to just talk to the guy, and maybe it just wasn't meant to be.

Then Natasha started meddling.

At first, Steve was amused at her matchmaking efforts. When she switched from suggesting girls to talking about guys he might find attractive, he got mildly uneasy, but she never veered from her standard of lovely, cute vanilla types, so Steve felt safe.

She wouldn't be Natasha if she gave up easily, though. And it turned out that while SHIELD may not be actively tracking his online purchases, Natasha could still easily hack into them; or maybe she'd just realized he was still going to the gym she had recommended but didn't appear to be particularly close to any of the other members. At least, that's what Steve figured must have happened when instead of the usual office drones and minor agents, she suddenly started suggesting members of his Strike team to him. She also not so subtly wove names like 'Umbra et Imago' and 'Women of Sodom' into their discussions of art and music.

Before she could go and arrange a blind date for him with Rumlow or something equally bizarre, Steve decided to come clean. "Natasha," he told her while ducking a spray of machine gun fire, "you need to stop trying to set me up with some random stranger."

She broke cover to flick a widow's bite straight at the shooter, knocking them out. "Why? I think you'd be a lot happier if you weren't alone."

Steve raced across the vast open space and secured the door. As soon as she joined him, he answered. "True, but dating random folks ain't the way to get there."

Squeezing past him, she checked the hallway. For a few minutes, they advanced in silence, then they found the command center and all hell broke lose. Another ten minutes later, all the hostiles were subdued and they were waiting for pickup. "I concede that dating doesn't always lead to a house, 2.5 children and a happily ever after-" Steve snorted. "- but at least it would get you laid."

At that, he laughed out loud. A quick glance around assured him that all the targets within hearing were unconscious before answering: "Trust me, Natasha, I have absolutely no complaints on that front."

Two raised eyebrows indicated her surprise. "Wherever are you hiding that? There's nothing indicating..."

Steve wagged a finger at her. "Uh-uh. Have you been spying on me, missy?"

"Missy?" she asked, more amused than insulted.

"Well," Steve said, striking a ridiculous pose, "if you're gonna meddle in the affairs of Brooklyn's one and only confirmed Uber-dom, then that title's the least of what you're gonna get for your efforts."

"Uber-dom?" Now, she was outright laughing at him.

The darkness hid his  grimace, but the self-deprecating  chuckle  came through loud and clear. " That's what the guys are calling me. And with the serum, it's kinda true, isn't it?  I can physically dominate pretty much anyone, and let me tell you, that helps so, so much. I remember being a 90 pound dom and that is just a hard proposition for  someone with a thing for bratty subs  that want to be wrestled into submission."

"So that's your thing?" she asked. "Mouthy subs you need to physically restrain?"

"Yeeah," Steve said, face twisting in distaste as his mind immediately called up an image of Tony Stark.

As though reading his mind, Natasha stated: "Stark must be a real trial for you, then."

Steve groaned. "Of course you had to guess. Damn you, Natasha."

"What?" she asked. "Don't tell me _he_ 's the one who's getting you laid so much you feel no need to look further."

"I wish," Steve admitted with a sight, "but no. I don't really think Stark swings that way. Any of those ways, that is; he's with a woman, and he doesn't strike me as the type to have violent fantasies."

"Boy, have I got news for you..."

Turned out Stark and Pepper Potts had broken it off yet again only recently, and on top of that, Natasha had managed to get Stark alone after a four day science bender where the sleep-deprived man rambled to her about his secret teenage fantasy of getting kidnapped and used as a sex slave by a bunch of sadists. And how recently, Captain America had somehow figured into that fantasy, though for the life of him Tony couldn't decide whether the good Captain should be one of the kidnappers or the good guy who showed up to rescue him - and then claimed Tony for himself.

Steve's eyes bugged at little at that information. "You're messing with me."

"I kid you not," Natasha replied. "You, _sadist_ you, are Stark's #1 fantasy."

"Wow..."

"There is one snag, though," Natasha continued.

Steve sighed. Of course there would be. "What is it, then? His hatred of the real me?"

"Don't be ridiculous," she scoffed. "Guy likes you."

Steve snorted. "He has a funny way of showing it."

"Funnier than your own?" she questioned pointedly.

"Yeah, alright," he admitted, embarrassed at the truth of her words. He hadn't exactly been up-front with Tony about his own interest. "So what's the issue then?"

"The issues is that his opinion of you is, in fact, too high, while his self-esteem is too low. Especially after things didn't work out with Pepper. He won't ask you out, and if you tried, he'd probably reject you based on his own conviction that he doesn't deserve Mister Too-Good-To-Be-True. His words, not mine."

"Ah, hell. What do I do, then? Kidnap him?"

Natasha's slow smile showed a disturbing amount of teeth.


	2. Art Appreciation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The following chapters are short episodes from Steve's encounters with various members of the gym and their acquaintances. Don't look too hard for plot, you won't find much. Though admittedly, there's surprisingly little sex in here, either. I fail at writing pwp. : / 
> 
> ETA 2018-05-10: Okay, so I get to revise that statement. Starting with chapter 4, the fic earns its rating. ; )

"Hey Steve," Mike called out to him from across the gym. "We're going to see the new Batman movie tomorrow, wanna come?"

Steve beamed at him. He loved having a social life. These days, he had enough friends outside the Avengers he could even afford to say no to an invitation. "Thanks, Mike," he said happily, "but I'll have to decline. I've got a hot date with Renoir."

Patrick gave a surprised 'eek' and fell out of his chin-up. "You talkin' about the Stein collection at the MET?!"

Steve put down his weights and strolled over to the young man who now stood frowning up at the bar like it personally insulted him. "Sure am. You like art?"

"Are you kidding me?" Patrick exclaimed, turning around. "I'm minoring in art history."

Steve smiled beatifically. "So how about we go take in that collection together?"

Patrick answered with an even wider smile. "It's a date!"

* * *

"...but I'm not sure about the colours he picked for this one. See here? That red is a bit matted in comparison with -" Steve broke off when he noticed Patrick was no longer listening to him. He turned around to see his companion staring at a man nearly twice the student's age with a look of raw _want_. 

Steve smirked. "So who's your friend?" he asked flippantly.

Patrick turned around, blushing fiercely.  "Not so much a friend as an, uh, teacher."

Steve quirked an eyebrow. He'd watched Tony do it often enough that he eventually perfected the art himself. "You're lusting after your teacher?"

Patrick shushed him with a panicked look over his shoulder. Then he leaned in to explain. "I never had him in class, alright? 'sides, we didn't do nothing until I'd already been outta high school for several years."

"But then you did?" Steve inquired mildly. "Don't worry," he added, "I'm not one to judge."

"Weell..." Patrick said, looking sheepish. "I  ran into him at a club. Turns out he's into some of the same shit I am and we're fairly compatible. So we discovered a very, uh, unique form of private lessons that worked  really well for  both of  us."

Steve smirked. He liked the pictures Patrick's words invoked. "So why don't you go over and talk to him? Did you have a bad break-up or something?"

"Nothing like that," Patrick was quick to reassure Steve, "he just  moved  back to Germany after his wife's contract with  Oscorp ended  and I'm surprised to see him here. But, see, they had an open relationship back then and I'm not sure that's still a thing with them, so..."

"I see," Steve said. "You don't know if it's okay to approach him openly now that he's back in the States."

"Yeah," Patrick breathed on a sigh,  looking wistfully over at the  professor. Just then, the target of their conversation turned around and noticed them both looking.  The man gave a start, eyes widening, then excused himself from his conversation and headed straight for them. 

Patrick's breath hitched.

"Breathe, Patrick," Steve said, laying a hand on the small of Patrick's back and rubbing reassuring circles.

Patrick breathed out slowly and deliberately.

"Patrick," the middle-aged man heading toward them exclaimed happily,  opening his arms  wide for a hug, "what a great pleasure to see you!" Steve noticed he  spoke with a marked German accent  mixed with a bit of Oxford, but otherwise seemed  as  confident  in his use of the English language as he was of his welcome. 

Patrick did not disappoint, easily falling into the embrace and hugging the man firmly.  "Hans, I had no idea you were back in New York."

Hans smiled as he pushed Patrick back, holding him at arm's length to look him up and down. "I just got here a week ago, but I was definitely going to look you up."

"Yeah?" Patrick asked, the hopeful tone making him sound even younger.

"Of course," Hans nodded. "If you want, I'll be glad to... assist you with your studies once more." He threw a questioning glance Steve's way. "So who  is your friend?"

Steve and Patrick exchanged a quick glance. "This is Steve Rogers," Patrick then said with an impish grin.

Hans rolled his eyes at them. "I'm sure he is. Well, glad to meet you, _Mister Rogers_ ," he said mockingly. 

"Pleasure's all mine," Steve replied,  shaking the man's extended hand.

"What?" Patrick interjected innocently. "Don't tell me you don't see  it."

Steve was grateful to Patrick for not outing  _Captain America_ as a sadist to random people;  the topic was sure to come up any minute now, after all. This way, neither of them had outright lied and yet Steve's reputation would stay untarnished.  Steve had always been good at playing with people's assumptions, and Natasha had helped him refine that skill. Sometimes, it was ridiculously easy  to dissimulate. 

"Steve's a friend from the gym," Patrick went on to explain.

Hans frowned at him. "Patrick, don't tell me you dragged the poor man here to look at _art_ against his will. I'm sure there are better places for a couple to visit these days."

"Oi, there was no dragging involved!" Patrick defended himself. "Steve loves art! Also, we're not a couple."

Hans made a  _yikes_ face. "I am terribly sorry, Mister Rogers," he said. "Sounds like I put my foot in it." Then he turned to Patrick. "I  hope I didn't -"

"It's alright," Steve interrupted the flustered man. "We do share a lot of interests, and while we're not a couple, we're also not entirely unaware of each other." He smirked  salaciously. " Frankly,  I'd love to sit in on one of your 'lessons'."

Hans perked up.  "Is that so?" 

Meanwhile, Patrick pretended fanning himself. "Both of you as my teachers, now that's a sweet thought!"

Hans and Steve looked each other up and down. "Well, why not?" Steve asked, and Hans answered with a grin.

* * *

A couple of hours later, Steve and Hans were sitting  casually on the sofa in Patrick's tiny bachelor pad.  There wasn't much in the apartment, furniture-wise, but Patrick had sprung for a chin-up bar attached to the ceiling by a couple of sturdy hooks. 

Right now, Patrick's wrists were tied securely to the ends of the bar while a spreader bar kept his legs nice and open. He stood naked, facing the two men sat on his sofa with a bunch of his notes from class spread out between them. 

"Georges Braque," Hans queried.

"1882 to 1963," Patrick answered immediately. "Uh, one of the founders, together with Picasso."

"Correct," Hans nodded. "Did they always get along well?"

"Umh, I think so?"

"Wrong," Hans said, a steely tone in his voice. Steve reached out with the electric fly flap. It connected with Patrick's chest with a mean little  _buzzzz._

"Yeouch!" Patrick yelled, writhing in his bonds.

"While inseparable during their later cubist phase, Picasso initially suspected Braque of wanting to copy his work," Hans explained. 

"Dammit, I knew that!" Patrick cursed under his breath. 

"Albert Gleizes," Steve threw his way  after rustling through the notes for a bit.

Patrick looked thoughtful for a moment, then started rattling off facts about the artist.  Steve asked for more details  until Patrick eventually messed up again. Hans gleefully raised his riding crop. 

_This is fun,_ Steve thought,  _even though I really fucking hate cubism._

He said as much to Hans, adding: "I wonder if anyone could help me study history this way. It would be a lot more fun than studying it by myself."

"Are you still in school, too?" Hans asked.

"Well, no," Steve said, "but there's a lot of history we didn't cover while I was and I believe I should know it for my current position." He smirked. "Also, I'm a switch and I'd love to experience this from the other side, as well."

Hans's face took on a thoughtful look. "You know, I do have an acquaintance who teaches history and who might be interested."

Patrick pointedly cleared his throat, bringing the two men's focus back on him.

"I'll give Jonathan a call for you later, shall I?" Hans asked. Steve nodded happily before taking hold of the fly flap once more, ready to continue whipping Patrick into shape.

* * *

_It's different with just one teacher,_ Steve thought as he  easily  answered the question about  the  Vietnam war.  Jonathan was also sitting on a sofa, but that's where the similarities to the previous scene ended. 

While Steve and Hans had eventually graduated to a system of mixed rewards and punishments, Steve fucking Patrick as long as he managed to answer correctly while Hans kept punishing him for wrong answers, Jonathan had started with a two-pronged set-up right away. 

Steve shifted uneasily on his haunches as the pleasant buzz of the plug inside him increased at the correct answer.  The shifting set the clamps on his nipples in motion, as well as the ones spreading his balls all over a thin wooden rectangle,  hurting in a fascinating new way. He peeked down at it. It was a really weird sight, but artistic in its own  right. 

"So give me the run-down of the first Gulf War," Jonathan demanded. "Who started it, why and when?" 

Here was another difference to the previous scene: Steve was not studying specific material for a set test, but rather just studying to improve his own general knowledge. Hence, Jonathan was not sticking to pre-written notes but asking the things he considered important.  Some of it, Steve was already quite familiar with, while other things took him completely by surprise.  For some reason, his SHIELD primer had ranked the death of Elvis Presley as more important than the independence of Tuvalu. 

While Steve  talked, Jonathan watched him with a contemplative look,  seeming to ponder more than just the validity of his answer.  There were several more questions leading to a number of additional clamps as well as a nearly painfully high setting of the vibrating plug as rewards kept piling up. 

Steve was  struggling to give a coherent answer about the Berlin Wall despite the distractingly powerful buzzing of the plug when Jonathan  seemed to abandon his contemplation in favour of a more hands-on teaching style.  Standing up, he walked slowly around Steve, then knelt down behind him.  Steve gasped as the plug was withdrawn, still vibrating, from his nicely stretched ass. 

"This okay?" Jonathan asked, dangling a condom in front of Steve's eyes. 

"Yeah," Steve breathed. "Hell yeah."

Jonathan  had Steve bend over the small coffee table, head low and ass up in the air, before  the man settled in behind him. 

"I will continue as long as you answer correctly.  Come whenever you're ready," Jonathan allowed as he slowly sheathed himself to the hilt. 

"Unf," Steve answered eloquently.

Jonathan went slow at first, punctuating each question with a more vicious thrust, then going back to a slower pace while awaiting Steve's answer.  "You're really easy on the eyes," he commented at one point, trailing an admiring hand down Steve's muscle-packed abs,  before continuing with: "So tell me about the results of the one-child policy on the Chinese economy."

"The - uh - demographic curve changed -" Steve huffed out laboriously, " - and supporting the old became - more - " Gasping and groaning, Steve doggedly made his way through repeating what he had learned from various sources  while shivers of pleasure overtook his body, not only due to the situation he found himself in, but also inspired by Jonathan's  easy praise. 

"Good,"  Jonathan said,  handing Steve a new topic even as his right hand changed from petting Steve to twisting one of the nipple clamps. Hot fire shot through Steve's chest and straight down to his cock. 

Steve moaned loudly.  He was  _so close!_

"Steven?" Jonathan asked, pretending to be disapproving even as he kept pounding into Steve.  "1979 to 1990?"

"M-margaret Thatcher!" Steve cried out -  and came. 

Jonathan grunted in surprise before coming as well.  Then he broke out in gales of deep, full-bellied laughter. "Margaret Thatcher? That's  the name you cry out when you come?"

"Shut up," Steve said, blushing.

"Didn't have you pegged for a Thatcher fan," Jonathan continued.

"I'm not, shut it," Steve insisted, slowly recovering from the intense session.

Jonathan pulled out and gave Steve a hand up. Steve took it, immediately towering over the other man. "I'm not,  okay?" he mock-growled.

Jonathan raised his hands. "Alright, alright. Just figured if you're into one tough British lady, why not two?"

Steve froze. "What do you mean?"

Jonathan lowered his hands and gave Steve a knowing look.  "I  couldn't help but  notice that you have a very firm grasp on your history up to 1945, from which point on your knowledge becomes hit and miss."

Steve made a face. 

"Don't worry, Captain," Jonathan said, "your secrets are safe with me - including your admiration for the Iron Lady."

Steve groaned.


	3. Dinner Date

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Steve's having a somewhat negative reaction to another person's kink in this one. I don't mean to kink-shame anyone, YMMV and all that jazz, I just think everyone has certain kinks that just don't do it for them and I picked this one for Steve.

"Thank you so much for doing this, Steve."

Steve smiled reassuringly at Jack. "No problem," he said. "I know it can't be easy to trust again after shit like that happened."

"No kidding," Jack grumbled. "I really appreciate you spotting for me."

'Chaperoning' might be the better term, Steve thought, since he wasn't just going to sit by the phone in case Jack failed to check in. He was going to actually be in the room while Jack got into it with his date. After the mess with Laurence, Jack hadn't felt up to playing with anyone for the longest time. Now, he wanted to try again, but was hesitant to trust anyone. What if he let himself fall and his partner failed to catch him?

"There he is now," Jack said, stretching to wave at a man on the other side of the road.

Steve blinked, then whistled as the young man approached, long, red hair waving behind him in the breeze. "You dog, he must be at least ten years younger than you!"

"Stuff it," Jack said. "He's a perfectly legal 24, and I'm only 31, thank you very much. Besides, who are you to talk?"

Steve sniggered. It was true, he was playing with people who were both twenty years his senior and fifty years younger than him, depending on how you wanted to look at it. Either way, he really had no room to talk.

"Brady," Jack said warmly, "glad you could make it." They hugged awkwardly, then Jack introduced Steve. Brady bounced on the balls of his feet, barely looking at Steve for ogling Jack even as they shook hands. "Glad to meet you. Jack said you'd keep an eye on us?"

Steve nodded.

"Great!" Brady said.

Steve blinked.

"I haven't done many scenes yet," Brady explained, "so I'll be real happy to have some support."

And off they went.

Back at Jack's place, they had a wonderful lasagna Jack had fixed earlier that day while the two young men hashed out the details of their scene. Steve butted in a couple of times when he thought they might need to discuss some point or other a bit more in-depth, but otherwise sat quietly enjoying his lasagna. He nearly spit it out again, though, when Brady shifted the discussion to scat play.

_Gross._

Jack didn't seem to think so, though. Much to the contrary, he leaned forward in his seat and suddenly the discussion grew a lot more heated and anticipatory.

Later, as the two men got down and dirty - literally, ugh - Steve was really, really happy that they didn't seem to need his help with anything. This was not his kind of scene.

He had to admit, though, that there was something intriguing about it, about the degradation involved. The crass physicality of it...

He wondered if Tony would like it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I've mostly got my bunnies in line by now, but if there's anything else you want to see Steve doing in this 'verse, let me know and maybe I can make it happen. ^^


	4. Fighting Dirty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> David isn't part of Tony's kidnapping crew, but he played such a large role in Steve's fantasies that I just had to give him his own chapter. ; )
> 
> Warning for derogatory, homophobe language.

Now this was more like it, Steve thought as he stood facing David in the ring. Sergey had locked up behind himself, leaving Steve his backup key. No-one was going to disturb them. He and David had the gym all to themselves.

It had taken David unexpectedly long after Steve's coming-out to approach him, and Steve had been surprised that it hadn't happened in the form of a cheeky provocation or pick-up line. Instead, David had earnestly asked him for the pleasure of doing a scene together.

Steve quickly found out why. David wasn't out for a quick spanking by the powerful Captain America. Instead, he desperately longed to be fully subdued by a stronger man, never mind said man's identity. They sat down and had a long talk about their respective kinks and no-gos and in the end, Steve was both nervous and eager for the fight to happen.

"No holds barred," David reminded him as he tucked his mouthguard into place.

"No holds barred," Steve agreed, lips twitching up in an anticipatory grin around his own gumshield. "Are you all warmed-up and stretched?" he asked with a grin.

"Yeah, so stop talking," David said, eyes sparkling. "No backing out now."

Then David attacked.

The fight was hard, and fast, and brutal. For a man of his size and muscles, David moved surprisingly fast. Shit, the guy was _flexible!_ Steve got in a few licks, but also took some heavy hits that left his stomach aching and his head reeling.

David withdrew to organize his next attack and Steve slowly lowered his gloves. His eyes narrowed and his lips firmed into a grim line. Then he went on the offensive.

David visibly didn't know what hit him. Steve's fists came flying from all directions, hitting hard and with flawless aim. And Steve wasn't afraid to fight dirty, pulling hair, aiming for the crotch. Steve had never stood in a boxing ring before, but he'd sure seen more than his fair share of back alley fights.

In a matter of seconds, David was on the defensive, trying and failing to shield himself from Steve's furious attack. He growled, abandoning his protection to lash out. The hit struck true, but it helped him little: What might have been a knock-out blow for a regular human barely got Steve Rogers to stumble back with an irritated frown, shaking his head like a nervous horse, then come right back for more.

Red marks started appearing all over David's torso, on his face and arms, indicating where bruises would begin forming in a little while. Steve knew his adversary must be aching fiercely; his own pain at this point was nothing to sneeze at.

Still, David didn't give up. An exhilarated grin stretched his split lips, the bloody smears giving him the look of a deranged killer as he once again threw himself into, finally, a challenging fight.

And then Steve brought him crashing down.

David landed with a loud "Umph!", catching himself awkwardly on his lower arms before Steve's weight settled in across his back. His gloved hands scrabbled for purchase, trying to push him back up, but Steve grabbed one of them and twisted.

"Argh!"

Holding on to the left hand, Steve reached for the right, all the while mindful of the man's bucking and kicking legs. Soon, he had David pinned, large pranks captured in one hand, legs fixated by one of his own. He took out his mouthguard.

"Yield," Steve demanded.

"Fuck you," David answered after spitting out his own mouthpiece in a shower of bloody droplets.

"That's not very nice," Steve scolded mildly. He sent his free hand exploring along the other man's side.

"The fuck are you doing," David demanded roughly.

"What's it look like, Etteson?" Steve asked, letting a mean tone enter his voice.

"Stop touching me, you sick faggot," David growled.

"Why should I?" Steve demanded, squeezing his hand underneath the man's body to rub at a nipple. "What's a weak little sissy like you gonna do to stop me?"

"You bloody bastard," David spat, bucking to try and throw Steve off. But Steve held fast, staying on top and enjoying the power he had over his victim. He grabbed David's chin and twisted his face to the side, then leant down to lick a long stripe up the man's cheek. "We're going to have so much fun with each other, sweetheart."

"Let go of me, fucking cunt!"

"I don't think so." Steve stretched himself to reach over to the table he'd set up next to the ring and pulled the cloth cover down. Quickly gazing over the assembled props, he chose a red rope to tie up David's arms, hands next to the opposite elbows. A collar went around the man's neck and was attached to one of the posts, keeping the man's head down. Then Steve sat further back, immobilizing David by putting more weight on his arse. "Now, let me see..."

He stood up and roughly turned David around, sitting back down on the man's chest. "What have you got for me, honey, huh?" he asked, slowly inserting a finger in the man's pants.

"Stop this shit," David spat, still struggling to get free. He eventually bucked strongly enough to unsettle Steve.

"Right," Steve said, turning around to face David again. "This will stop now," he decided, then delivered a slap that echoed loudly in the silence of the gym. Only David's harsh panting was heard afterwards. "Stop fucking wriggling," Steve hissed. "It's annoying."

While David was still dazed, Steve went back to fondling the man's crotch. He slowly peeled down the boxer's pants, revealing a half-hard cock that slowly filled further under Steve's attention. "Very nice," he commented. "You're really aching for it, aren't you?"

"Stop this at once," David hissed. "I'm not a fucking pansy like you. Keep your disgusting paws to yourself, jackass!"

"Really, such language," Steve said, sadly shaking his head. He peeled the pants and boxers off a struggling David, tossing the pants aside. Then he unceremoniously shoved the bunched-up boxer shorts into the man's mouth. Enraged, muffled noises emerged. "There, much better," Steve said with great satisfaction.

He snatched up a tiny bell from his table and pushed it into David's hand, having removed the gloves. "Keep a hold of this for me, will you?"

More angry noises answered him.

"There's a good lad," Steve said patronizingly and patted the man's cheek. Then he once more stood up and bodily turned David around, leaving him kneeling with his tied hands in the air and eyes once again facing the boards. David, of course, tried to kick, but Steve discouraged him with an couple of heavy blows. While David was catching his breath, Steve got a few more supplies from his table.

The snap of rubber alerted David that things had just gotten a lot more serious. Wide eyes looked back at Steve over the man's shoulder. Steve answered him with an innocent smile even as he adjusted the fit of the rubber glove.

Kneeling down beside David, Steve squirted a liberal amount of lube on his gloved fingers then went to work.

"Huh, baby, I didn't know you wanted this so bad. You should have said," Steve commented as David's already stretched and lubed ass eagerly sucked in his third finger. David answered with a frustrated growl and another fruitless wriggle.

Steve had been dubious when they first talked about this, but then David had shown him the size of his 'practice plugs' and Steve had stopped questioning him.

If David wanted Steve's whole fist, the whole fist he would get.

Slowly, carefully, Steve graduated from three fingers to four, David panting underneath him in exertion. Then, tucking in his thumb, inch by straining inch, Steve pushed in his entire hand. He kept his eyes alert, flicking back and forth between David's glorious ass and the hand still cramped tightly around the bell.

David's face betrayed nothing, the closed eyes focusing inwards as the man breathed heavily through his nose. He barely even twitched, his entire existence focused on the hand invading his arse. But now and then, a groan or a little whine gave testament of the strain his body was under.

It was difficult work, but also extremely exciting. Steve had never done this before, and witnessing David's reaction to the fist slowly entering him was a rare pleasure indeed. Then he was all in and Steve kept the hand still, giving David the chance to adapt to the intense fullness.

He carefully reached around with his other hand to take the boxers out of David's mouth. "You okay there?" he asked quietly.

David gave a dry chuckle. "Fuck you, bloody perv."

Steve grinned. "You don't know when to quit, do you?" And he started wriggling his hand.

The noises David made, now bar obstruction, were delicious. Every movement of the hand inside him produced at least a sharp intake of breath if not an outright moan or curse.

This was fun.

Steve began shaking his hand in earnest, and David's entire body shook with him. The curses grew louder, more desperate, interspersed with an ever-growing amount of moans and gasps as Steve's fist hammered his prostate and stretched sensitive muscles.

With a roar like a wounded animal, David finally came.

Steve stilled. He waited, motionless, for David's breath to slow, before he carefully began extracting his hand. Finally discarding the glove, he untied David's hands and took off the collar, allowing David to put aside the little bell, turn onto his back and relax.

While David's eyes were closed, one hand thrown carelessly across them, Steve smirked to himself. He snatched a couple more things from the table and turned back to the downed man.

"Oi!" David yelped when he once again felt a hand at his back door. "The fuck?!"

"You had your fun," Steve explained, "but what about me?"

"You gotta be kidding me," David breathed, tensing slightly.

"Nope," Steve said, fingering him a little, "I'm seriously hard right now and you're an easily available hole. You do the math."

David chuckled incredulously, but didn't make any actual protests.

Steve frowned in mock-disappointment. "You're sloppy now, though; gross. And way too loose. But I think that can be helped."

"Don't you mean can't?" David inquired, more amused than alarmed.

That changed very drastically when the first electric charge hit his hole. "ARGH!" Jackknifing off the floor, David made a grab for the intensely painful little rod Steve had just applied to his most sensitive parts.

Grinning, Steve snatched it out of reach.

"Are you out of your bleedin' mind?!" David roared.

"Nope," Steve said. "No holds barred, right? You asked for this."

"I said no e-stim." There was honest alarm in David's voice.

Steve considered him. "You also said to push your boundaries."

They looked at each other for a long moment. Finally, David let out a long, slow breath and gave a barely perceptible nod.

"Thank you for trusting me," Steve whispered. Then he straightened up again. "Anyway, it's your own fault. We could have played this nice, you know. But you just had to fight me."

"Fuck off," David growled, getting back in character. "I never asked for you to put your filthy hands all over me, you disgusting swine."

"Too bad." Steve gave him a toothy grin. "You're getting them anyway." Dialing up the energy on the tiny wand, he applied it once more to David's hole.

David screamed and finally started fighting back. On instinct, his fists lashed out to slap aside the painful weapon and hurt his attacker. To his dismay, Steve was ready for him. Powerful hands blocked his advance, catching and immobilizing his own muscular arms with ease. The unstoppable soldier held down both of David's hands with his left, set a knee on David's chest to pin him down, and went right back to torturing him.

Screaming and thrashing, David tried to get out of the man's hold, but to no avail. Shock after shock raced through his tender, abused ass, making him twitch and spasm with pain and horrified anticipation.

Eventually, the assault stopped, Steve putting aside the tiny torture device in order to probe at David's ass with his thumb. "Much better," he declared as David lay panting underneath him.

Never letting go of David's captive hands, Steve maneuvered himself into place, tugged his own pants down as far as necessary and applied a condom one-handed. Meanwhile, David tried to kick him. Steve answered by settling his knees on the man's upper thighs, pinning him tightly.

When he was ready, he frowned down at David. He couldn't fuck him like this, but the moment he took his knees off the man's legs, he'd kick out again. Eyes narrowing, in a single fast movement, Steve grabbed hold of David's right leg, let go of the man's arms, slid off his legs and pulled.

With a startled yelp, David found himself turned around, suddenly facing the floor. Steve's weight once more settled in on top of him. Before David had a chance to use his new-found freedom, it was already gone, one of his hands held tightly twisted on his back, his knees pushed apart by Steve's own, and his hip immobilized in the punishing grip of a large, strong hand.

When Steve finally pushed in, David screamed.

It wasn't from pain, or fear. It was a scream of utter defeat - and relief.

At that point, David stopped fighting. Steve could feel the tension seeping out of the man's body, the way he suddenly began meeting Steve's thrusts, cooperating, pushing Steve towards his climax.

Letting go of the lovely, strong hip, Steve's left hand quested downward and found David's own erection once more firm and involved. Grinning, he started pumping it in time with his own thrusts.

David moaned.

It was a different sound from before. Earlier, David had been struggling, resisting, each moan and gasp seemingly forced out of him against his will. This sound now was a different thing altogether. It was open, wanton and heart-felt.

Steve loved it.

Despite the long struggle, neither man was too tired to put his back into it, and they fucked for a long time before, one after the other, they finally came.

"Aah!"

Steve collapsed on top of David who'd already crashed down to the floor, spent and panting.

Slowly, David started to chuckle. "Man, I didn't know what I'd gotten myself into when I propositioned you."

Steve blinked slowly. "Do you regret it?"

"Nah," David said. "This was easily the most rewarding session of my entire life."

Steve snuggled closer into his back. "That's good then," he said, closing his eyes and enjoying the quiet of the gym, listening to their excited breathing slowly evening out.


	5. Movie Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pretty rough session. Don't read if you're squeamish about blood or come. Oh, and needles. Mustn't forget the needles. And sounding. And probably a couple other things I should be warning for. Just... really, rough session.

Steve had felt a little bad the second time he had to turn down Mike's invitation to the movies, this time due to an Avengers emergency; so he was quick to accept when the man invited him over for a private movie night at his place the following week. Steve had offered to cook. They made smalltalk while the casserole he'd prepared at home heated in Mike's oven and Steve added the dressing to the salad. During dinner, they discussed kinks, squicks and safewords, Steve's handy inability to catch any diseases and his puzzlement about forniphilia.

Mike searched Netflix for that movie he'd apparently been dying to see while Steve got them each a beer and settled down on the couch beside Mike. The discussion about forniphilia continued through the opening of the movie. A short while later, Steve was on his hands and knees in front of Mike, naked, serving as a footstool.

It was... interesting.

Steve thought he might need to look up that movie again sometime because while it sounded kind of interesting, he was unfortunately facing away from the screen at the moment. He didn't think a piece of furniture should move, so he kept his eyes strictly facing the wall.

He felt it added to the experience. He wasn't merely watching the movie with Mike in a different position; rather, he wasn't watching it at all, he wasn't even in the room as a person. He was just a piece of furniture that Mike made use of, nothing more and nothing less. This should have been boring, but the knowledge that he was serving Mike and fulfilling a very clear-cut, single purpose and didn't have to do anything else but to kneel here in order to do a perfect job somehow made it alright. He could happily drift off into his head space of serving and being used, where he didn't have to care about anything nor make any plans. It was just him and Mike, and Mike would take care of everything.

The ringing of the doorbell was loud in the little apartment.

Startled, Steve made to sit up, but a firm hand on his shoulder kept him down. "Stay, I got it," Mike said.

Steve wanted to protest - who was there? What if they came in and saw him here? - but was still far enough in his head space that he managed to swallow his doubts and trust that Mike would handle it. Steve didn't have to do a thing while Mike was in charge, Mike would take care of this.

Mike must have seen his muscles tense and relax or something, for he petted Steve's head in passing. Steve preened, unconsciously getting back into the perfect posture he'd lost once Mike's feet had come down.

Mike walked past him to the front room, conversing lowly with whoever was at the door. Steve couldn't help but overhear the low voices.

_"Good to see you,"_ Mike murmured.  _"Remember the enhanced hearing."_

Steve frowned. 

_"Of course,"_ a voice he couldn't place answered in an eager whisper.  _"Wouldn't want to ruin the surprise."_

Fuck. 

Did Mike just betray Steve to his enemies? Was Mike Hydra? 

_"Wait here,"_ Mike murmured, then Steve could hear his steps returning to the living room. 

"Steve," Mike said, taking Steve's chin in hand and fixing his gaze on Steve's. "Do you trust me?"

Did he? 

_I have no idea,_ Steve thought,  dropping his eyes in thought.

Five minutes ago, he would have said yes. Now he wasn't so sure. He couldn't quite believe that Mike would betray him, but he _had_ just let at least one - probably two, by the sound of it - unknown people into an apartment where Steve was kneeling naked and, until that doorbell rang, not a little spaced out.

Steve was still far from helpless, though. And Mike had to know that. Also, would he be asking this and _preparing_ Steve for something unusual to come if he meant him harm? Wouldn't it have made so much more sense to have these people already lying in wait when he entered rather than have them ring the doorbell and announce themselves?

No, Steve thought, this couldn't possibly be the shady plan it looked like at first glance. And if it wasn't...

He looked back up with his lips twitching. "Yes, I think I do."

"That's good," Mike said, roughly patting his cheek; slapping it more than patting it, really. But Steve didn't mind. "Then you won't mind if I blindfold you, will you?"

Steve allowed it.

A moment later, Mike went to fetch the newcomers. Steve heard them enter the room, two men besides Mike by the sound of it. They stepped through the door and while two sets of footsteps continued on uninterrupted, the third one stopped abruptly. A low whistle was heard. "Jesus, you weren't kidding...!" was muttered disbelievingly.

"Told you he's easy on the eyes," Mike sniggered at normal volume. Steve resisted the temptation to react to the praise, keeping himself immobile and his face blank.

"Not that, you prat!" the other man protested a tad miffed. "But - him!"

"Pretty amazing, huh?" a third voice murmured. Steve thought he should be able to place it, but the low mumble wasn't quite enough for him to be sure. Distinctly _not a threat_ , though. Of that he was sure. He completely relaxed back into his role of footstool, except for a bit of tension brought on entirely by anticipation.

What was going to happen? He could make a pretty good educated guess, what with him kneeling naked and blindfolded on the carpet while three grown-ass men surrounded him and commented on his looks.

Mike was the first, and so far the only person Steve had approached at the gym about the kidnapping he wanted to plan - not naming any names yet, just sounding out interest - and so Mike knew that Steve had been wondering what it would feel like to be suddenly find oneself at the mercy of a bunch of complete strangers.

He had a feeling he was about to find out.

Mike vanished into the bedroom for a moment and when he came back out, his steps were accompanied by some clinking and clanging noises. A moment later, Mike's steady, strong hands wrapped sturdy iron shackles around Steve's ankles and wrists.

Steve bemoaned the knowledge that no matter how strong they were, his superpowers would easily be able to break them. But then he rallied and begun stealthily sealing away that knowledge. If he just pretended these were vibranium or adamantium, and if he never put his full strength behind any abrupt movements, he ought to be able to feel quite trapped.

He made a slight motion with one leg, stretching the chain between his ankles to the max, and enjoyed the feeling of confinement when the chain snapped taut. The length was enough for him to nicely spread his legs, but not enough to kick out. Similarly, his hands were sufficiently far apart to be guided behind his head, but not far enough to put them around someone.

Then he found out that Mike had hooks embedded in his floor.

After all four of his limbs had been securely attached to said hooks, Steve shifted nervously from one hand to the other, testing his bonds and finding them a nice, tight fit.

This was going to be good.

"So, Steve," Mike said in a conversational tone, "if my buddy here feeds you his cock, will you suck it like a good little slave or are you gonna bite?"

Right. They'd talked about Steve being docile for Mike tonight, but adding more people to the mix might change that. Steve thought about it. Did he want to provoke or to serve?

He absentmindedly tested his bonds again, enjoying the shiver down his spine at the contact with the cool links of the chain. It might be fun - and challenging - to have three people punishing him for every little act of defiance. On the other hand, he had been rather content in his servile persona just a little while ago.

"Sir," he finally decided, "it will be my pleasure to serve you and your guests to the best of my ability."

"See that you do," Mike answered coolly and Steve just knew Mike was going to test his resolve. He could barely hold still for eagerness to begin.

They didn't make him wait long. As promised, a fat, half-hard cock bumped against his closed lips a moment later and Steve meekly opened up to take it in. Steve licked at the head at first, circling his tongue around it and pushing teasingly into the slit, then slowly moved forward as much as his chains allowed in order to take in more of the delicious, rapidly firming cock.

"While you are behaving so nicely, there won't be any punishment," Mike said from where he was presumably sitting on the couch again, watching Steve's performance. "However," he continued, and Steve perked up even as he continued laving the cock in his mouth. "However, I'd very much like to see you with some lovely red marks." Mike's voice grew huskier. "Also, you said you heal fast and I've always wanted to make someone _bleed."_

Steve felt a shiver of _something_ run through him at the words.

The cock was abruptly withdrawn from his mouth, allowing Steve to react to Mike's words. "If," he began slowly, "if it please my Master to hurt this slave, it is this slave's duty to take the pain and be grateful for it. My blood belongs to my Master, just as my body is his to command."

His heartbeat picked up at the realization what he was agreeing to. This was going to hurt, to harm even. It was going to be brutal.

There was a moment of silence. Steve was pretty sure that fraught glances were exchanged above his head. Then, everyone started moving and very quickly, Steve found himself in the middle of a scene he couldn't possibly have anticipated when he agreed to dinner and a movie.

A switch was raining heavy blows down on his unprotected back. His shoulders were raw and aching in no time, his ass must be glowing red as a traffic light, even the backs of his thighs and the soles of his feet were riddled with a lattice work of huge, flaming welts. Mike grunted with pleasure every time Steve cried out before breathing a shaky "Thank you, Master."

Meanwhile, one of Mike's friends had gotten busy with a nasty little sound that he'd inserted into Steve's urethra when Mike took a short break to switch to a thicker cane. As if that weren't enough, the man had gotten a Magic Wand from somewhere which he randomly touched up against Steve's balls. Every startled flinch from the cane and every needy movement into the touch of the vibrator set the sound shifting inside his cock. It was a delicious, evil hell.

The third man had claimed Steve's front for himself. At first, he'd gone for the obvious playground and rolled Steve's nipples, pinching and twisting to his heart's content. After a while, though, he seemed to tire of that game and had brought out the needles. Steve's chest hurt, his arms were prickling with tiny puncture wounds, and Steve was just waiting for this psycho to start shoving needles under his finger nails. He wasn't sure that the man wouldn't.

It was... a lot.

So many different sensations were vying for Steve's attention he barely knew what to focus on. Every time a new pain bloomed with another inserted needle, his attention snapped to that spot, only to be swiftly jerked back to his poor abused ass when the switch came down between his cheeks, reddening his unprotected hole. And then his attention was ripped away again as the vibrator touched up against his perineum, making his cock twitch painfully and his head reel.

Steve stopped trying to focus on anything. He rode the storm of conflicting input enhanced by his lack of sight and by the knowledge of his own willing surrender. A bright pain blossomed in his left shoulder like a light saber cutting through the darkness behind the blindfold. Steve flinched from it. Then another, biting pain bloomed on the back of his thigh; a singletail, he thought, no longer a cane. The whip hit his taut ass cheek and Steve knew with a bone-deep certainty that only a few more hits would split the skin.

He gasped.

Now that the dam was broken, Steve found himself uttering a string of helpless, needy noises. Gasps, whines, moans spilled from his lips without reserve. And still, he managed to thank his master for every single hit.

A harsh slap to his face brought Steve to focus forward to where a voice was saying: "You alright there, man?"

"Yes," Steve wheezed, "ohmygod yes. Don't stop now, please don't stop, don'tstop-dontstop-dont-"

"Alright," the man said. His next words probably weren't directed at Steve, but he heard them anyway. "I think he's ready to move on."

 _Move on?_ his addled mind asked. _To what?_

He wasn't left guessing for long. The sound was extracted from his cock, the last needle withdrawn from his skin. Two final, hard blows fell on his ass, cracking open the skin on both sides. Steve shuddered as he felt his hot blood spill from the cracks, running down the backs of his thighs in tiny rivulets. He moaned.

Then a rough finger invaded his arse - without any lube.

Steve cried out in pain. However, the high he was riding immediately usurped the pain and twisted it around until it became pleasure. "Aaargh!" Steve screamed. "Master - please –"

Two fingers poked at him, then three.

Nothing else was done to Steve's body while he was brutally, crudely stretched, the three men watching in silence as he writhed in his bonds, trying to get away from the hand one moment only to eagerly meet the invading digits the next.

He was so confused!

But, he knew, he didn't have to think. Mike had him. He could just trust in Mike and not think about this, not plan anything, not worry. He only had to _feel._

A hand swiped down his thighs, then something slick touched against his feverishly hot opening. The wide cock that had been in his mouth earlier plunged into his ass without warning and Steve _screamed._

The man pushed in relentlessly until he was fully seated, giving Steve only the tiniest of breaks before he started moving. It was agony. Despite the sloppy bit of lubrication the cock had brought with it, every movement of the thick, long velvet steel tore at the sides of Steve's channel, brushing against the overstimulated muscles of his abused hole like sandpaper.

Another slap to the face alerted Steve to the fact that Mike was standing in front of him before his face was roughly grabbed and his mouth pulled down over the man's pierced cock. "Control yourself now," Mike admonished, "I don't want to feel any teeth." Then he rammed his cock all the way down Steve's throat.

Steve wanted to scream, but there was hot flesh blocking his airways. He wanted to move away from the agony splitting apart his lower body, but four hands were holding him in a vice-like grip and he _couldn't disobey._

And then he didn't _want_ to escape. He wanted to lean into the cruel hands, wanted to take both cocks further, he wanted it all, wanted more. Steve gloried in the intense pain and pleasure coursing through his body at the hand of his cruel masters.

He knew that his injuries would heal in a matter of hours, but on a normal human being they wouldn't. No regular man should engage in a scene as rough and harmful as this, and Steve reveled in the fact that he could do it, could give this to his partners.

He lost himself completely in the pleasure of serving these men like no-one else could.

Steve's vision was beginning to fade when Mike finally stopped pumping his cock down Steve's throat and withdrew fully. Steve felt the tip of the cock on his cheek, moving up and down to smear precome and Steve's own spit all over his face. It should have been humiliating, but all Steve felt was a vague rightness and the desire to get the cock back in his mouth where he could be of better service to its owner.

The man behind him was growing more frantic now, cursing and groaning as he pumped into Steve. The pain had taken a backseat to the pleasure, in fact the glide of the cock in and out of his ass was a lot smoother now; it barely hurt. Steve didn't think about it, he just redoubled his efforts to push back into the man's thrusts even while Mike held his face in steady hands to push his cock back into Steve's mouth.

A sudden, fierce pain shot through Steve's cock, hitting him like a lightning bolt out of a clear sky. He jerked, all muscles spasming. Then the pain came again, _stronger._ It took all of Steve's self-control not to bite Mike in startled pain and disorientation.

A third pulse of agony rushed through Steve, just as both men were pushing into him, followed by a feather-light, soft touch to his balls.

That's what finally did him in.

Twitching and writhing, tears streaming down his flushed face, Steve spilled his load in hot, desperate spurts.

He did not get a reprieve. If anything, the men grew more frantic and brutal as they watched him come. Steve hung between them, spent and dizzy, and still the men pushed into him with fierce abandon.

It was agony. It was too much. And Steve wouldn't have had it any other way.

Finally, after what seemed like endless hours but probably had only been a minute or two, Mike groaned and withdrew from Steve's throat yet again, painting Steve's face with a thick layer of hot spunk.

Panting, the man withdrew. He seemed to address the third man as he huffed out: "What about you? Want his mouth or his ass?"

Steve honestly didn't know if he'd survive being fucked by another man just now. But he really didn't want to say no, either. He whined pitifully, his muscles clenching in anticipation of further exertion and pain.

That's all it took to bring the second man to completion. He didn't make much noise, but Steve felt him stiffening behind him. Moments later, he withdrew his cock, prompting a fresh trail of _hot_ and _wet_ to run down Steve's thighs. Steve moaned at the sensation.

Finally, the third man uttered his wishes. "I want him to give me a hand job," he decided. "Can we untie him?"

Steve groaned. He didn't know if he still had enough coordination left to jerk anyone off, much less do it _well._ But he didn't protest when Mike released him from his shackles and directed him over to kneel in front of the sofa. He allowed the blindfold to be taken from him and let himself be positioned between somebody's legs. He looked up, for the first time, into the face of the man who'd been torturing his privates for the last hour or two.

A bearded face, maybe thirty years of age or so, looked back at his blinking eyes with a challenging smirk. "You still up to the task, slave?"

"Yes, Master," Steve answered on reflex, before taking a moment to actually think about the question.

What was there really to think about, though?

Naked man in front of him. Clear instructions. This didn't exactly need a genius battle plan.

Except for how every movement hurt when Steve reached out to take the man's erection in a firm grip and start stroking him. Steve gasped. Pain shot through his lower back where things still felt too hot and wet for comfort. Pain stung all along his throat where his vocal chords and his uvula had been bruised by the brutal cock pushing past them. Tiny pockets of pain riddled his chest, crawled down his sides and flamed on the back of his thighs.

The man looked down at him with relentless, mocking eyes.

Steve gritted his teeth and focused on his task.

It was humiliating, is what it was, to be kneeling here in all his dirty, used-up naked glory, blood spilling from the torn skin on his ass cheeks and more than likely also from his hole; tear tracks on his cheeks and spunk all over his face; and to have this man looking down on him with a sardonic grin as Steve struggled to get his hands to cooperate and wank the bloody bastard.

In normal circumstances, Steve could wipe the floor with that guy.

But these weren't normal circumstances. Steve had chosen to give up control to Mike and his friends, to be their slave, their fucktoy, to serve them to the best of his ability. And boy, did he do well.

Flushed cheeks became darker as Steve realized what he had done this night. He'd taken all the abuse these men heaped on him, had been fucked raw even while he could barely breathe for the cock in his throat, and he had managed to get off on it.

He was mighty chuffed with himself.

Now he just had to finish off this guy and he could allow himself to rest and be proud. With newfound strength and determination, Steve set to his task. The man's hand came up to play with his hair as he worked, gripping roughly a few times, then gently stroking again, until it was clear the man was nearing his climax. Mike and the other man - Jim, Steve realized with sudden recognition, who always came to the gym Saturday afternoons - sat to the third man's sides, enjoying the show while Steve did his level best to please him.

All of a sudden, the man slapped Steve's hand away and stood up. Jerking himself off quickly and efficiently, he looked Steve straight in the eye. Then he came all over his face.

Steve managed to close his eyes just in time, but some devil rode him to keep his mouth open. Hot semen pattered across his closed eyelids, hit his cheeks, his nose, and fell on his tongue like heavy, bitter rain.

With a last, satisfied groan, the man let himself fall back onto the sofa. Steve remained kneeling in front of his three masters, his body riddled with angry red welts, blood trailing down his legs and come dripping from his face.

Slowly, he closed his mouth and swallowed, licking his lips as an afterthought. He moaned at the taste as much as at the picture he must present.

To his immense consternation, he felt his cock hardening at the image.

Mike laughed. "Guys, what do you say we give Captain America a nice, long bath? I think he deserves it." Then he looked back at Steve and, pointing to the third man, said negligently: "By the way, this is Oleg."

Steve looked up, grinning as he felt more cum sliding down his cheek. "Pleased to meet you."

  
  



	6. Safety First

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter is taking me a bit longer than expected, so have this one in the meantime!

"I could," Natasha said, "but I'm not sure that I should."

Steve gave her his saddest puppy dog eyes. "But why not?"

"Steve," she said, managing to simultaneously sound understanding and exasperated. "If I organize you a pair of mag cuffs for your games, what guarantees can you give me that no-one will take advantage of the situation to finish off a helpless Captain America?"

"Takahiro would never-" Steve protested immediately, but Natasha cut him off. "Oh, I don't doubt the loyalty of your new friends. They are a surprisingly honorable bunch. But what of other people who might have knowledge of your activities? How sure are you that no potential enemies could have learned of your plans?"

Steve's mouth, still open in protest, snapped shut. "Damn." She had a point.

He started mulling over the problem. "What if we got Tony to make a set that could be remote activated, or better yet keyed to a code word that I'm in control of?"

Natasha finally looked up from her novel and caught his eyes. "Would that still allow you to feel helplessly tied down?"

"Not entirely," Steve admitted, "but it would be better than bonds that I can _feel_ are too weak to restrain me. At least I'd have the physical impression of helplessness."

"Hm," Natasha made, her face carefully blank.

Steve looked at her suspiciously. "I know that look. What are you planing?"

"I suppose," she said, slowly as if testing the idea, "that it would be alright if another Avenger was in the room with you."

Steve blinked, then blushed. "Natasha! If you wanted a live show, you could have just asked."

She bobbed him on the head with her novel. "I didn't say it had to be me."

"Sure," Steve said sarcastically. "I am totally coming out to the rest of the team just so I can indulge in some sturdier handcuffs."

"Your choice," Natasha said with feigned nonchalance.

* * *

"So," Steve said, rubbing one hand over the back of his neck, "this is Natasha. Natasha, meet Takahiro."

He had to give it to Taka, the man barely even blinked as he shook hands with the Black Widow. "Good to meet you, ma'am."

Natasha, for her part, awarded him a wide, fake smile. Steve internally shrugged; she'd either warm up to the man or she wouldn't. It didn't really make a difference for the current arrangement. She didn't have to engage with Takahiro, after all. Her job was solely to watch; whether or not she liked Taka wouldn't affect their play.

An hour later, he found out how very wrong he was.

Takahiro had used the mag cuffs Steve handed him in a way that not only completely immobilized Steve but also kept all his limbs stretched taut to the point of torture, with his arms tied behind him and attached to the ceiling by a solid chain, forcing him to bend forward; and his knees painfully far apart where they touched the floor. He had then proceeded to inflict bite marks and scratches on every inch of Steve's skin.

This wasn't the surprising part. Steve had seen Takahiro play before, he knew the guy was extremely physical, scorning any kind of weapon or tool since his own teeth and nails worked so well for him. Steve had seen him play - but never like this.

It was as though Takahiro had something to prove today, and Steve could only imagine it was due to their silent, yet still somehow very _present_ audience. 

Takahiro was showing off.

Steve couldn't blame him. Who wouldn't want to try and impress Natasha? He knew he himself was begging that little bit louder to be hurt, was moving into Takahiro's bites more than he usually might have done. A hot flush spread over his face and chest as he realized that he _liked_ having Natasha watching. 

He found himself wondering what she thought of the scene.  Was she amused by it? Disgusted? ...Aroused?

Natasha's face gave nothing away. Takahiro hadn't given Steve a blindfold or a gag, leaving him free to raise his head and see Natasha watching him, and to give voice to his pleasure and pain. As the game moved on from pure pain to pleasure mixed in with the pain, Steve struggled to get immersed in the sensations as he usually did. Part of his attention always stayed with Natasha, watching her expressionless face for a hint of a reaction – a frown, a curl of her lips, a blink – something, anything to betray her thoughts on the scene.

He imagined her being curious about it, standing up and moving closer; inspecting him like Tony might inspect a new alloy. Or she'd be all disapproving, looking at his aroused dick like an officer inspecting a soldier caught wearing non-regulation clothes. She might even voice her disapproval, might punish him for his transgression.

Looking straight at Natasha, Steve moaned out loud and it had very little to do with Takahiro's left hand fondling his balls even as the right was slapping down hard on his erect dick. He could feel the man's own erection pressing into his back through the fabric of Taka's leather pants and it felt so good. He wanted it, needed it. But even while he gave voice to his need, his eyes never left the ice queen sitting a little to his left, perched comfortably on an upholstered chair like a queen observing her jesters play for her amusement.

He imagined her rating their performance, thumb coming up to promise a reward – he panted as Takahiro started opening him up – or maybe a down-turned thumb, with both of them being thrown into the dungeon for having displeased her, being chained up in a dark, damp cell, looking at each other with despair and waiting, oh waiting every day for her to grace them with her presence, to punish them some more or maybe to finally grant them re-… He shuddered.

_Release._

“Please,” he begged, “Master, please, may I come?”

Takahiro was still widening him. He stopped to say a sharp “No!”, then continued his efforts, uncaring of Steve's plight. Steve gulped, then started  focusing on keeping it together. It was hard, so hard…!

“Maybe a blindfold would help?” Natasha's cool, smooth voice suggested from where Steve was studiously not looking. He suppressed a moan.

“If you like,” Taka replied, putting away the lube and getting ready to enter Steve. He waited a moment, hands on Steve's hips, keeping him grounded while Natasha _got up and came closer._

Steve watched her like a deer in the headlights – just as shocked and just as immobile.

He waited whit baited breath as Natasha extracted a pair of long, dark silk gloves from her purse and took hold of one with both hands. Then his vision grew dark as the silky material was pulled tight over his eyes. Natasha's hands lingered for a moment on his temples, and did he imagine it or was there a tiny caress before the fingers left his face?

Biting his lip hard enough to draw blood, Steve desperately tried and failed not to react. He leaned into the touch, straining to follow as the hands left him. 

Natasha chuckled, then took a step back. Steve wasn't sure if she retreated further or remained standing there; he was distracted by Taka suddenly pushing in and beginning to hammer into him. The slapping noises and both men's panting  might easily have covered the soft footfall of a retreating spy. 

Steve had no idea now where Natasha was. Had she returned to her throne near the opposite wall? Or was she standing right next to him, close enough to touch, to hear every tiny whimper and see each bead of sweat on his straining body?

The image of her being  _right there,_ observing him, maybe judging him, while he was blindfolded, bound and helpless as another man fucked his hurting body with abandon -  that image once again brought Steve to the edge. He did not question if he  _should_ have such thoughts about his colleague, did not stop to ponder the ramifications of this situation. He  just squeezed his eyes closed as shudder after shudder ran through his body, tension simmering in every muscle and down to the tiniest bone and tendon.

“Taka,” he begged, “Master, please…!”

Taka's hand came down to caress his hair, the soft touch an incredible contrast to his dick forcefully slamming into Steve's body again and again. “On my say-so, slave,” the man said, his voice soft despite the harsh pants. “Not before.”

Steve whimpered.

Another hand stroked his cheek, the slightest touch, cool, barely there. It was accompanied by a sweet, feminine scent. Steve grew light-headed.

_Natasha._

“Please,” he said again. “Oh god please. Please!”

“Hush, slave,” Taka said again, though his thrusts finally sped up. Steve was sure the man was close. Would he allow Steve to come when he did? Or would he make him wait? Hell, maybe he didn't plan to let Steve come at all? A sob made its way out of Steve's throat at the thought. _“Please…!”_

Steve never knew what silent communication might have gone on above his bowed head and blindfolded eyes; he was too far gone to notice anything. But he was sure that Natasha had too much class to barge in on someone else's scene uninvited, and the coordination was too spot-on not to have been planned.

All Steve knew was that suddenly, there were hands on his chest, nudging at his nipples, pinching a little here, deepening Taka's scratches there, while a hot mouth sucked on his adam's apple. And at the same time, Taka's voice finally, finally growled: “Come for me, my own.”

Steve felt like he had been given another dose of super-serum. Pain wracked him at the intensity of his orgasm, and despite the shackles still binding him and two people's hands on him, holding him, restraining him, he felt free like he did the first time he ran without having an asthma attack. He felt powerful, joyful, euphoric.

Alive.

He was vaguely aware of Taka pumping into him a few more times before hot liquid flooded his insides. Steve moaned a little at the sensation. Then he sighed as the slender, cool hands left his chest and the hot mouth gave a last little nibble to his throat before withdrawing.

Taka's spent cock slipped from Steve's ass. The man leaned down to wrap his arms around Steve, resting his weight comfortably on Steve's back. This put more strain on Steve's captive arms, but Steve didn't even think of complaining. He welcomed Taka's heat, the physical closeness. It was good to be held, especially after an intense orgasm like this.

He wished Natasha was holding him, too.

But he didn't feel like he could ask. He couldn't even have asked for her to participate. This had been in no way part of their agreement, and yet she had done it when he obviously wanted her to. Steve didn't for a second imagine that she hadn't read it in his eyes, in his begging. He smiled a little, still feeling the illusion of being safely hidden behind his blindfold.

Natasha had seen his desire and acted on it. She'd _chosen_ to join in their scene.  A warm, soft little glow spread inside Steve in belated pleasure at the thought. 

Eventually, Taka removed Steve's blindfold, then pushed himself back to his feet and started releasing Steve from the shackles.

Steve blinked a few times before he unsteadily rose from where he had been kneeling with his legs spread as wide as they would go. He looked over at Natasha. She perched on her chair like a royal, still looking relaxed and aloof, not a hair out of place like she'd never left her seat at all.

For a moment, Steve doubted his own memory. Had he fantasized Natasha's involvement? Had he just _wished_ for her to touch him, strongly enough that in the heat of the moment his mind decided to play tricks on him?

Then she winked at him. It was a barely-there, quick lowering of one eyelid, the blink-and-you-miss-it type. But Steve had been focusing hard on Natasha and he did not blink. He was also quite sure, this time, that he was not just imagining things.

A slow smile spread across his face – not as quickly as the violent flush at her level gaze, but even so; he was happy.

“Should I feel left out?” Taka inquired mildly.

Steve turned around and immediately went in for a hug. “Definitely not,” Steve said. “Thank you for this wonderful, terrific scene!”

Taka roughly clapped him on the back. “No, thank you – the pleasure's all mine.”

“And mine,” a silky voice added from behind Steve. He smiled into Taka's embrace.

 


	7. Practice Run

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For TrashyTime. Hope you like it. Sorry this took me forever, but it... got out of hand? A tiny bit?

Officer Craig Cartison woke to a gun pressed to his temple and a hand covering his mouth.

Sweat immediately broke out all over his body as panic took over. All his muscles tensed in preparation of a fight that the gun wouldn't allow.

"You have failed to make your due payment for the last time," a voice growled at him. "The boss don't take too kindly to that."

Craig didn't understand. He'd never paid the mob, they had never even approached him about any money. As far as he knew, his precinct was blessedly uncorrupted. Why was this happening to him?

Wait. But... he knew that voice from somewhere, didn't he?

Before he could figure it out, a hand roughly dragged him out of bed and across the room, the gun never leaving his temple.

_Sod this._

With a speed and agility belying his low caffeine level, he batted away the gun, twisted around and planted the edge of his hand firmly in his assailant's kidneys. He was rewarded by a low "Oumph!" but that was all; the man didn't even stagger! Instead, he came at Craig like a bleeding rhino, all angry power and muscle.

Craig was ready for him. When the steely muscles of the man's arms slammed against him, he barely staggered, holding his own and immediately going on the counter-attack. Their fight was as furious as it was silent, the attacker presumably not wanting to draw attention while Craig prioritized giving his full attention to the fight over calling for help. He was sure he could take this intruder in hand-to-hand combat.

Boy, was he wrong.

A fist came out of nowhere to slam against his chest, leaving him momentarily breathless. Then a hand in his hair pulled his head back until he was brought to his knees.

"Pathetic," his attacker pronounced. "I promised the boss I'd beat you three ways to _Sunday_ but I don't think you'll even last that long." He put special emphasis on the word Sunday as though it should mean something to Craig -

Finally, the penny dropped. Breathlessly, Craig asked: _"Is it Sunday already?"_

His assailant chuckled. _"No,_ _and this sure_ _ain_ _'t go_ _nna_ _be Sunday school."_

Relief flooded Craig's system. He sagged in the man's hold, wincing as it put more strain on his scalp where the man's hand was fisted in his hair. "David sent you?" he asked lightly.

"Sure did," the man answered just as lightly, before his voice firmed. "And now shut up."

Craig bared his teeth in a hungry smile. "Make me."

* * *

Steve remembered the conversation well that he'd had with David a few weeks after their session in the gym.

_"I have this friend," David had said, "who's suffering from the same problem I am."_

_"Too strong to be brought to heel?" Steve asked, cocking his head._

_"Yeah," David agreed. "Though it isn't as much a problem for him as it is for me, since he usually tops anyway. But he recently confided that sometimes, he really would love to submit. No can do, though, because he doesn't respect any top who can't physically dominate him; and there are precious few of those. The only ones either of us knows are a couple of crappy dominants no-one would want to go down for." He frowned. "But you're a decent sort, Captain. Would you be willing to meet with my friend?"_

_Steve considered David. "You think I should?"_

_David nodded. "I think you'll like him. And you'd do me a great favour. Also, I've heard that you're planning a kidnapping; you could use this opportunity to practise."_

_"A kidnapping, huh?" Steve mused. It was true, he certainly wasn't a professional kidnapper, so a bit of practice wouldn't hurt. Also, if David's friend was anything like David, this was sure to be a lot of fun._

_"Well," David said, "it's not precisely what Craig described to me but I think it would work well with his fantasy. See, what he wants to experience is this..."_

* * *

"Make me," Craig had said, and the man had done just that.

Craig's cock was hard and angry in his sleep pants by the time the man had wrestled him down to the floor, roughly tied up his arms - in the front, Craig noticed with a disapproving frown - and forced a cock-shaped gag into his mouth. With the tight leather band cutting into the corners of his mouth, he had zero wriggle room to try and talk around the gag. Besides, fuck, that thing was _long!_

Well, if he needed to safeword out, his hands certainly had plenty of freedom to move; he was sure he could make himself be noticed.

The creepy part came when there was a soft knock on his door and his attacker went to open it. Craig never saw the second man, but he was lifted up and dumped into a long, wooden box. A _coffin_.

He shuddered and lay very still.

"Don't worry, it's just to get you down the stairs," the strangely familiar voice said and Craig relaxed some before the lid was closed on him. It was still a highly disturbing experience and he was thankful as all get out when the box clunked down on a metallic-sounding surface and the lid was immediately uncovered.

It was still dark, but at least he didn't feel trapped.

He twitched violently at the touch of fingers to his neck. They just seemed to take his pulse, though, then they retreated.

They drove for maybe twenty minutes. Craig didn't try to escape since he didn't know how competent his kidnapper actually was. What if he did manage to escape? Craig imagined having to explain to some colleague why he was running around half-naked and decked out in fetish gear. Somehow, the idea did not appeal.

So he silently lay in his open coffin, listening to his kidnapper's even breathing as he fantasized about what might be in store for him. This man was strong, obviously, and had been sent by David to boot. Craig was sure this man would challenge him in ways he'd only ever dreamed about.

Christ but he hoped the guy was competent.

When the car stopped, the man closed the lid on Craig's coffin again and Craig once again felt himself lifted and carried down some flights of stairs. By now, he was heartily glad his hands were tied in front rather than on his back; that would have been hell the way he was lying on the hard wooden floor of the coffin.

Again, the lid opened, and finally there was light.

Blinking, Craig saw a familiar shape moving away from him as he sat up. "Well, have fun," David said, "I'll see you both at the auction." He smirked roughly in Craig's direction before he left the room. The sound of the door falling shut was swallowed up immediately in the plush opulence of the...

What the fuck was this place?

Sitting up, Craig incredulously looked around at the plush, red carpet, the lustrous furniture all decorated with fancy little gilded petals, hearts and cupids, and the soft, warm lighting fit for a Hollywood romance - or, you know, a soft porn movie.

"Ngh!" Craig tried to protest the setting, but the dildo blocking his mouth made that a little hard.

_Hard. Heh._

"Quiet," the deep voice from earlier admonished him even as a large hand closed around the back of his neck. "I will let you know when it's time for you to speak, pet. Otherwise, you will behave yourself and quietly wait for my instructions. Alright?"

_You can quietly kiss my ass,_ Craig wanted to snarl but again, the gag sabotaged  the attempt. "Ngnn!"

"Ts, ts, ts," said the man, still stood behind Craig, presumably with one leg inside the coffin, and bent down to slip his fingers around Craig's neck until they were cutting off his air supply. "Do you really want to anger me, pet?"

"Hggnnn!" Craig said emphatically.

"You do, don't you? How very disappointing." Contrary to the man's words, all Craig heard in his voice was a deep, dark amusement. "I suppose I'll have to teach you some manners, pet, won't I?"

The hand on his neck tightened further. Craig's vision went spotty.

"Clap your hands if you agree to behave," the voice instructed him mildly. It came from right beside his ear now, an despite the mild tone, it clearly conveyed the implied threat if he didn't follow orders.

_Like hell I will,_ Craig thought, trying to think straight despite his dwindling oxygen supply.  _Think, Cartison,_ he told himself,  _you're not some babe in the woods. You have been trained for this._

And his hands were just loosely tied up in front of him.

It took more effort than he would have liked, but Craig managed to gather his wits about him and remember the correct moves to get himself out of his attacker's hold.

Unfortunately, none of his instructors had ever been as strong as this guy and  in the end, all Craig's daring manoeuvre earned him were some bright flares of pain along his neck where the man's fingers had slipped a little  as  Craig tried and failed to jerk himself out of the man's hold.  The head-but he had put all his strength behind hadn't even reached its goal. 

_Holy shit!_

This guy was fucking unreal. "Ngch."

"Yes, that's right, pet," the man's condescending, calm voice reached him over his own panting. It still sounded so damn familiar but for the life of him, Craig couldn't place it. "You don't stand a chance against me, so stop trying. A poor, innocent little lamb like you won't be able to defeat a mean, strong man like me. So just be a dear and give it up, will you?"

This guy was aggravating! Craig prided himself on being a butch, tough customer. He knew how to physically bring down a resisting criminal, and he was highly proficient at letting his muscles play to impress his submissive audience. Where did this guy get off talking down to him like he was some fainting lily?

"Nng!"

A slap hit the side of his face. Craig's ears rang. _Woah._

The voice was still calm, however, as it said: "Pet, I don't think you quite understand your position here, so I'm gonna spell it out for you. Listen real carefully."

Biting down hard on the gag and imagining it was this smug asshole's dick, Craig listened.

"I will make you hurt," the voice informed him pleasantly. "I know your limits, and believe you me I know how to work those to the max without crossing a line. I know how to make a guy cry and beg and crawl for me, and by the time I'm done with you, _you will thank me for_ _being allowed to service me_ _."_

Craig wanted to scoff, but something in the man's tone made him hesitate. There was such a strong conviction to the man's words, a ring of truth that shouldn't have been there, not with the claims he was making. And yet there it was: if Craig had ever believed anyone was telling him the truth and nothing but the truth, it was this man right now.

Craig had known he was in for a rough session, had hoped he'd get to fight and be subdued, to resist and, for once, not come out on top. He'd hoped to be dominated and brutally fucked for a couple of hours.

But this guy was talking about _conditioning._ He was talking about training, about cutting Craig down and making him his _pet_.

This was the work of weeks, months even, and not a couple of hours on a Friday night.

That might have been all fine and good if Craig didn't have to show up to work on Monday, or if he thought the guy was just bluffing to scare him; but Craig did and the man wasn't.

_Fuck._

He saw no other way out. Craig lowered his arms to his upper thighs and slapped his right hand against his thigh, twice.

"What?!" The man behind him sucked in a startled breath. His hand immediately stopped choking Craig and instead reached up to unfasten the gag. An angular, pale face appeared in his blurry field of vision, wide-eyed and flustered. "What's wrong? Are you injured?"

Craig wanted to laugh, but his pinched vocal chords only managed a sound like a rusty door. "'m fine," he croaked out, "but we need to talk."

The other man let out a relieved breath, though he still looked unsure. "Okay," he said immediately. "Do you want me to untie you?"

"Might be better," Craig replied, "I don't know how long this is gonna take."

The man untied him. Craig rubbed his hands a little and stepped out of the coffin, still blinking away the spots from his vision. The man's big hands suddenly weren't threatening at all as they helped him sit down on a plush, violently red sofa.

"So, the thing is," Craig began, unsure if he was about to crush the guy's fantasies but unwilling to play if they weren't on the same page, "you're talking long-term conditioning here. But I only got the weekend."

"Oh," the man said, again sounding relieved. "Is that all it is?"

"It's a pretty big concern," Craig replied. "I'm very fond of my job."

"I see," the other man said, a blurry smirk stretching his lips. His muscles shifted mesmerizingly underneath his tight shirt as he leaned forward in his seat opposite Craig.

Craig stared. Christ, the man looked good. What a body! Where did a guy like David find a specimen like that?

"I promise that I will return you to your home in time for eight hours of sleep before you're expected back at work," the man said, sounding half serious and half seriously amused.

"So you were just messing with me?" Craig ventured.

"No," the man said, the amusement winning over the seriousness, "I fully intend to make you my bitch, and you _will_ crawl and beg for me."

Craig finally got to give the incredulous snort he'd wanted to express earlier. "In one weekend? I'll believe that when I see it."

The other guy's smirk widened, his face slowly gaining definition as Craig's eyes adjusted to the light. "Oh, so you're not fond of blindfolds then?"

Craig laughed. Justified or not, he liked the guy's confidence and his wit. "Bring it on."

* * *

Steve was glad they had talked. It disrupted the scene, sure, but he didn't think this dedicated officer would have been able to commit to the scene if the worry about failing at his job sat in the back of his mind the entire time.

Now, though, he had really high hopes for this session. His grin must have looked mildly threatening, for Cartison sort of sneaked off the sofa and took a step backwards. Lord, but Steve was glad the man had forgotten that Monday was Labor Day! Not that it usually affected the NYPD rota, but according to David, dear Craig always submitted his application for leave on Labor and Columbus Day early in the year, enabling his other colleagues to take Thanksgiving. Anything to get out of Thanksgiving dinner with his family, apparently.

So Cartison had taken Monday off months ago and, though he may remember in time, right now he was completely off his game and disoriented. It probably didn't help that his biorhythm must be shot all to hell by Steve having torn him from his bed at two in the fucking morning.

Steve had made very sure that the room he rented for this purpose had no windows and a very sturdy door. The only timepiece in the entire suite was the one in Steve's phone which Cartison certainly wasn't going to see; he had safely put it away in an unremarkable desk drawer.

Besides, very soon dear Craig wasn't going to see much of anything any more. If Steve was lucky, the man wouldn't have a single clue why a regular weekend seemed to last _forever._

Steve had to admit, while mindfuck on this scale was a bit new to him, he rather liked it. 

Grinning even more widely, Steve stalked towards his prey.

* * *

Craig was caught between worry and anticipation as the man advanced on him. The look on the man's face, and all that barely-leashed power humming under his skin, visible in every smooth step, every bulge of powerful muscles rippling under his skin-tight shirt and jeans - all of that served to show how much trouble Craig was in. Even as most of Craig's body was gearing up for a fight with an immensely dangerous opponent, a tiny, traitorous part was preparing for something else entirely.

Craig adjusted his stance to accommodate his once again hardening erection.

The predator preparing to pounce on him bared his teeth. Or maybe that was just a widening of the already large grin, it was hard to tell when most of Craig's focus was on the man's steely muscles and large hands. A shudder ran through him.

The man was just feet away when suddenly the fight was on. This time, Craig was prepared, he was sure the man wouldn't take him down as easily as he did before.

Only, he did.

A hand caught Craig's left fist mid-swing and un-fucking-believably simply stopped it. It was like hitting a brick wall, only his fingers didn't get broken upon impact. But the swing stopped dead all the same.

Not wasting any time over his surprise, Craig immediately lashed out with his right foot instead, once again connecting with a body that felt hard as steel. The man gave no reaction besides a low grunt as the foot hit the side of his knee, but Craig himself yowled in pain. Shite, his poor foot didn't deserve this! He didn't think anything was broken, but Christ on a crutch this _hurt_. 

This time, he did lose time blinking dumbfounded at this literal rock of a man, and his opponent  apparently  decided  this was  a good  time to take the lead.  With a couple of gestures so smooth and efficient Craig barely had time to notice them, he had Craig flat on his back and was sitting on him. 

"Ouff!" Air escaped from Craig's lungs at the impact with the floor, covered though it was in  frilly red carpet that looked like something straight out of his older sister's romance novels.  He brought up his hands to protect his face, but the guy didn't even try to hit there. Instead, nimble fingers poked inexorably at Craig's sides. 

Craig's eyes widened. The man was  _tickling_ him?! 

It was like he wasn't taking Craig's attack serious at all. Lowering his hands in bafflement to get a better look, Craig came to the overwhelming realization that indeed, the man wasn't. He was sitting there tickling Craig, bouncing a little where he sat on his victim and apparently having a bit of innocent, childish fun. To all appearances, for this man, their fight must be child's play, the kind you don't really have to try hard to win. Hell, while Craig lay there panting, that man wasn't even out of breath! 

Suddenly, he gave a yelp as the fingers tackling his sides _pinched._ Craig was fairly immune to tickling, but pinching? That was a lot harder to ignore, and a lot less pleasant. 

Remembering himself, he brought his fists back in and aimed boldly at the man's face. Why not? If that smug ass was so self-confident, he certainly deserved a bloody nose. 

But Craig never got that far. Without even breaking the rhythm of his pinches, the guy blocked Craig's first attempt to punch him. And the second. And the third.

Frustrated, Craig tried to jack-knife, savagely aiming his knee at his attacker's spine. He did not pull his punch as he usually would in a play situation; this man seemed gloriously, completely indestructible. And indeed, to his immense delight and equal frustration, a hand came out of seemingly nowhere to grab at his knee and push it back down before he even came close to hitting the man's back. And when Craig tried to use the resulting opening in his attacker's cover, the guy nimbly shifted backwards, securely trapping Craig's legs underneath him, once again freeing up both of the man's hands.

Craig seamlessly shifted into his next escape attempt, which he knew going in was doomed to fail. How could he roll suddenly enough to dislodge his opponent if the guy was faster than him and blocking all his diversionary punches to boot? Not to mention built like a fucking tank. He tried anyway and, as expected, he failed.

"Are you particularly fond of these pajamas?" the man asked and Craig froze and blinked at the unexpected question.

"The hell?" he asked.

A slap made his ears ring. "Answer the question," a hard voice commanded. Dammit, he'd even seen the hand coming, and still been too slow to stop it!

"I don't give a fuck," he replied honestly, still marvelling at the guy's speed.

"Good," came the satisfied reply. Not a second later, his sleep shirt was _ripped open_ down the front. 

_Yeah, alright,_ Craig told himself.  _I've seen this done in the movies._

But... those were usually flimsy little  faux-silk numbers, not sturdy  cotton clothes like  he was wearing.  _How strong is this guy?!_

A moment later, he had other concerns as large hands roughly pulled one of his arms out of the sleeve, tearing the sleeve  off the remains of the shirt and bringing it close to  Craig's face. 

"Hold still."

_Yeah, sure._

Seeing his chance while the man's hands were occupied with his makeshift blindfold, he tensed, ready to attack...  and was thwarted once again when the man's  _feet_ suddenly came up and pinned  Craig's hands to the carpet. 

_What the ever-loving fuck._

Super strong and agile  like a circus performer?  This guy was unreal. 

Craig vainly tried to avoid the blindfold by thrashing his head back and forth, but two strong fingers taking hold of his left ear put a stop to that.  Craig wasn't stupid enough to go ripping off his own ear when it was trapped in a  _vise._

"Fuck," he cursed succinctly as the blindfold came down.

"Haha - no," the other man said. "Only if you're a really, _really_ good little pet."

Was this guy  serious?  Craig  was  close to six foot tall and brought  nearly two hundred pounds  to the scales, he certainly wasn't little, and he sure as hell wasn't anyone's pet!

Only, the man on top of him was apparently not just taller than him but also  heavier in a way that,  going by his stature, was one hundred percent muscle.  Craig had the sinking feeling that if this man called him little, it was because to him, Craig was. 

Little.

Helpless.

A cute pet.

The idea did interesting things to Craig's head.  While this was a  long-standing, cherished fantasy,  it also wasn't something he'd ever expected to find in real life.  As a consequence, he had a hard time accepting it.  Craig's self- image was deeply rooted in his firm belief  in his own strength, his superior  fighting technique and his unflappable  composure in the face of impossible odds.  Stoic  endurance  and a quick mind had saved his ass numerous times.  He wasn't about to give up on that fundamental truth about himself. 

But... 

But.  If he didn't accept that in this one instance, he was the inferior fighter, he'd have to keep fighting. He was tired already, dammit, and … He blushed. He did kind of want to come, at some point. Otherwise, why bother with the whole  scene?  He was in it for the sex  as much as for the mental kick, and if no sex was forthcoming, it would still be hot, no doubt, but... well.  Certainly not as satisfactory.  Unfortunately for him, the other man had made it quite clear that sex wouldn't be happening unless Craig  _submitted._

He kinda hated the guy right now. 

He hated the man even more when a hand patted his cheek and that strong, confident voice said patronizingly: "Well look at who's blushing so prettily for his master. I know for a fact I only hit one of those cheeks, so the other one is all you, my little darling. Wanna tell me what has you all flustered, pet?"

"Fuck you, you sonofabitch," Craig spat out mutinously.

"Well that's not very nice," the man said and the suddenly bland tone nearly made Craig shiver.

Turned out he was right to be concerned. The next thing he felt were teeth digging into his shoulder. Craig couldn't help it; he screamed. His legs were trapped by the man's weight on his thighs, his arms pinned down by the man's feet, and he knew the man's hands were free again. He was so. Utterly. Helpless.

The bite didn't let up. The man was like a dog with a bone, digging his teeth in and refusing to let go, not matter how much Craig writhed underneath him.

Then the hands came down, first one, then the other, and Craig's scream died a strangled, painful death. One of the hands had taken hold of the taut skin of his belly, impossibly finding purchase there, and was now pinching it like a pair of pliers. And the other hand - the other -

_Oh, fuck._

_Fuuuuuck._

The other hand. The other hand was between his legs, gripping his balls through the material of his sleep pants, and _squeezing_. 

"Stop," Craig breathed out. "Ohmygod, stop." The pressure increased. "Stop!" Craig felt panic rising inside him. "STOP, dammit, STOP!" he  screeched  hoarsely. 

The pressure remained constant as the man stopped biting him. His mouth must be right next to Craig's face now, he could feel the hot breath on his cheek as the man spoke: "Did you want to say something, pet?" The pressure increased by a fraction. "An apology, maybe, for being so  _rude?"_

"YES!" Craig rasped, "I apologize, Jesus do I ever, I am so, so sorry, please will you just STOP?!"

And suddenly, the pressure was gone. While Craig breathed out a sigh of relief,  the hand came up to pat his cheek once more. "See? That wasn't so hard."

With a hot-and-cold flash  of shame  running through his body, Craig realized that  not even an hour into their game,  the other man already had him begging.

He shivered.

He was suddenly deeply convinced that this man never  did anything by halves. And if he said he would make Craig his bitch, that was what he would do.  Before the time was up, Craig would crawl and beg for this man. And he would do it gladly. 

* * *

A drop of sweat ran down Craig's forehead.

It slowly crawled through his right eyebrow, preparing to journey further south - into his eye. Craig wanted to wipe it off, but both his hands were busy holding the riding crop out exactly parallel to the ground. He wanted to shake his head or lower it to wipe his brow against his bare shoulder, but there were candles sitting on his shoulders that would fall off and emit rivulets of hot, liquid wax all over his chest if he so much as breathed too hard. Hell, he'd try to scratch himself with his hind legs like a dog if he could, but no matter how much his knees hurt him he was forbidden from standing up.

And he was not about to go against this man's orders again.

Trying to distract himself from the looming sweat drop, Craig took stock of his body. Despite having been allowed to sleep twice already, he did not feel rested. There were aches and pains all over his body, some caused by blunt trauma, some by various whips and canes; he had tooth marks around his neck and pinch marks spread out across his torso. His arse cheeks were flaming hot and presumably red as a fire engine. Sometime while he had slept, the man had pulled on a pair of black army boots which had also left their imprints on Craig's ass, and maybe on his upper back. He'd certainly felt them grind down on him as he lay panting and exhausted at his kidnapper's feet.

At least he had been fed and watered, though the humiliation of being fed scraps from the man's hand while kneeling at his feet beneath the table had hurt. The man was treating him like a dog, making him kneel, crawl on all fours on his leash and beg for table scraps.

Yes, he'd had to beg. And he had done it, too tired and too far off in his head to even feel ashamed any more.

It had been kind of nice, he realized with a tired grin. Not fighting for once, doing what he was told, and being rewarded for it. Being petted, and even having his dick caressed a little by the man's feet. That had been as mortifying as it had been hot. To his great dismay, it had also ended before he got to come.

"You haven't earned that yet," the man had explained while petting Craig's hair. "But I am sure you will, pet."

God, but he wished they were there already.

Thinking about it made him half-hard again. The food had given him back some strength, as did the nap he got to take after. He was even allowed to go use the bathroom by himself.

He had no idea how long he had been sleeping on that carpet in front of the clichéd fireplace with the real wooden logs, but when he woke he had felt refreshed and ready to fight a new day. Looking around, however, he had spotted the man sitting on the sofa above him exactly as he had been when Craig went to sleep, looking as though he had been there the entire time. Craig immediately doubted his own internal clock. What was more, the man had obviously been busy: He showed Craig several sketches of... himself, naked and bruised, as the man must have seen him throughout the... day, night, time was a hard concept to grasp in this windowless room.

The pictures were good, Craig had to give him that. He didn't think there could be many pro-wrestlers - or whatever the guy was - with this kind of artistic talent. But they were also deeply disturbing in a way that Craig couldn't immediately put his finger on. All he knew was that he flinched back from them as though stung.

Thinking about it now, with a few hours' distance, Craig thought it was the mix of the familiar and the totally alien that got to him. There he was, in the sketch picture the man had made, clearly recognizable as Craig Cartison; that was _his_ face, _his_ haircut, _his_ body. All his muscles had been pencilled in with loving detail, as had the burgeoning crow's feet in the corners of his eyes and the leathery, weather-beaten quality of his hands and cheeks. There could be no doubt that the subject was a strong man who could easily hold his own in a fight.

And yet... There had been an innocence to him, as he lay there sleeping on the plush carpet, naked and slightly curled in on himself. A vulnerability.

Craig grimaced and the droplet detached from his brow, hitting his eye lashes and getting tangled in them. Squinting, Craig tried to keep the sweat from entering his eye.

His eyes. They had been closed in the picture, and he had looked peaceful, if a little exhausted. He knew what he looked like, but he had never seen a picture of himself while he slept. There was something different about him then, something softer. More... inviting? Certainly less dangerous.

"This is how I see you," the man had told him.

Then he had smirked and swapped the picture out for another one. "And this is how I _want_ to see you."

Craig had stared.

After the disturbing, yet calm beauty of the previous piece, this one was a shock to his system. The picture once again showed him, though he was in a position Craig was quite sure he had never been in, not once in his entire life.

There was no way he could have forgotten _that._

In the picture, Craig was on his knees, arse raised toward the spectator, with his arms stretched out along the floor in the opposite direction. His head, though, was turned to look backwards, right at the artist, and the expression on his face was like nothing he had ever seen. There was a look of naked _hunger_ and _pleading_ on his face that made shivers run down Craig's spine. Picture Craig's lips were red and glistening, either from a recent blowjob or a touch of lipstick; it was hard to tell. Likewise, his eyes looked somehow darker than normal, though the picture didn't _quite_ make it obvious if there was actual mascara involved.

He looked desperate. Helpless.

...And also very hot.

_I'd hit that,_ Craig found himself thinking. It startled him. He had never thought of himself as  the kind of man he'd want to dominate, to hurt and to fuck.  He usually went for softer guys, less muscular and with slender wrists, long legs and pleading, pretty eyes. Not butch muscle-men with shoulders wider than his own.  The idea that he himself might be attractive as a sub was strange and new to him. 

But this was how the other man saw him. Or, as he  had said,  _wanted_ to see him. 

Craig didn't kid himself, he was more than halfway there.

The new energy he'd gotten from his sleep had evaporated quickly as he continued to struggle against the other man's control. No command was heeded, no physical direction followed without at least some scathing denial, a futile blow and a couple of escape attempts.

All in vain.

Every time, the man reined him back in, shut him up and _made him do it._

Whatever 'it' might be at the time: _Fetch me my slippers. Kneel here. Lick my fingers_ \- that one had been kind of hot once he got around to it. _Tell me what you want._

Yeah. No.

No way was he going to admit that he just really, really wanted to get his mouth on the man's dick rather than his fingers.

And so he had ended up here, with candles on his fucking shoulders and holding out the crop the man was going to lash him with as soon as he got back from the bathroom. It was to be his punishment for not answering the question. For once, Craig didn't dare disobey. If he moved without taking off the candles first, he was going to get himself seriously burned. But if he lowered his hands and, say, used them to remove the candles, the man had threatened to make him _really regret it,_ opening up a cutesy little cupboard and taking out a range of sex toys of worrying proportions to underline his threat.

Eyeing the humongous butt plug next to the sharp-toothed nipple clamps, Craig barely suppressed a flinch. He knew his kidnapper wasn't joking - his balls still wanted to retreat inside his body in remembered pain. So no. Never mind that his pride was seriously injured by the forced obedience, but resisting right now would hurt in a way Craig was not prepared to face.

Sure, he didn't actually have to face anything. He could safeword out of this scene at any time. In theory, he could act up to his heart's content, then bail out without facing the consequences.

That would be it, though. He didn't think the man would be very impressed if he kept provoking him without accepting correction. That wasn't the scene they were playing, that wasn't what they had agreed upon - via proxy, but no less valid for all that. Were their roles reversed, Craig knew he would have found that a big turn-off.

And it wasn't what he really wanted, either.

He'd asked for this, after all. He had wanted to experience what it was like to be at the mercy of a man physically able to dominate him, to make it _real._ And here was such a man. As far as Craig could tell, he was a damn fine top: strong, competent, with an aura of dominance and enough empathy to realize when he needed to adapt his plans to the living person in front of him.

If he took the easy way out, Craig _would_ be out. He wouldn't get to experience what it was like to truly serve this man - and no matter how much his conscious mind raged against it, part of him did want to serve - nor what it would feel like to get fucked by this beautiful, strong, dominant man.

He wanted that. God, how he wanted it.

As he remembered the man's clever feet on his dick, a hot shiver of desire ran through his body - upsetting the candles on his shoulders and nearly causing the right one to tip over. Tensing, Craig focused exclusively on that candle and tried desperately to stop it from falling.

He managed to stabilize it and slowly, very carefully let out the breath he had been holding.

_Damn that was close._

The door  behind him  opened and his kidnapper returned to the room. Craig still didn't know  the man's name, he hadn't exactly introduced himself.  Craig  had, for a couple of hours,  amused himself with calling him "Dark Cap" in his head, since he looked a bit like Captain America  but was playing games that were  too dark for the champion of truth, justice and the American way.  But the moniker was too silly  to actually stick  in the face of the man's aura of threat and dominance, so Craig was back to referring to him as 'his kidnapper' or simply 'that man'. 

His kidnapper's steps approached and Craig fought hard not to tense and upset the candles again. His arms trembled under the combined strain of holding out the riding crop and trying not to flinch as the steps came to a stop right behind him. 

"Did you behave yourself for me, pet?" the man asked.

Craig clenched his teeth. Looking at the arrayed sex toys on the table, he forced himself to unclench them. "Yes," he bit out, then ruined it by adding: "Obviously."

The man tutted in apparent exasperation. "Pet, we really have to work on your manners. You will address me as 'Master', and I will have no lip from you."

Craig's clenched teeth stayed firmly shut,  his eyes following suit. His body tensed in preparation for a blow. 

A split second later, his eyes snapped open again and the lips parted to let out a tortured yell. It took him a moment to realize where the pain was coming from, then he understood that he had tensed too far and the candle on his right shoulder, already balanced rather precariously, had finally toppled over. Hot wax had splashed down across his pecs and was now slowly trailing further down his torso, cooling as it went. 

It was agony.

He cringed,  curling in on himself, then froze. What about the other candle? 

Slowly, oh so slowly, he moved his left shoulder up and down, affirming what his senses had already told him: the left-side candle was gone.

He whipped his head around, looking at the man standing behind him.  There he was, looking down at  Craig with a  thoughtful frown, holding the missing candle between his thumb and  index  finger.  He had it tilted at an angle and Craig was just sure he was pondering whether to empty the hot wax on Craig's other shoulder or straight down  into  his crotch. 

"No, please...!"

The words slipped out before he had a chance to consider them. Mortification rushed through him and he felt his cheeks heat up.  The floaty feeling that had allowed him to beg before he last slept had apparently left him again.

But the candle straightened.  The man's hand came down to cup Craig's chin as the man stepped around to crouch in front of him. "Oh, my poor little pet.  Did you get burned? My poor dear." The hand not holding the candle released Craig's chin and the fingers began raking fondly through his hair. 

Craig's chest was still pulsing with the aftermath of the burning hot river of pain splashing across it, but  the pain  was  slowly subsiding and Craig was at leisure to appreciate the dichotomy of the man's right hand caressing him and the left holding the threatening candle.  Somehow, both sides appeared equally responsible for his slowly hardening  cock. Craig didn't quite know what to make of it, but knew he had no way of fighting this. 

The hand in his hair tightened, the grip forcing him to look up and meet his tormentor's eyes. "You know what I want to hear, pet.  Say it."

Craig stared  up at his tormentor with wide eyes, his heart racing. The man wasn't currently threatening him with the other candle, he was holding it loosely by his side. But Craig knew that if he didn't submit, he was in for a world of pain.  His imagination ran wild with the image of the candle being upended, all the wax  it had been accumulating while sitting merrily on the shelf for the last two hours  crashing down on the most painful spot  his kidnapper could think of.  His crotch came to mind, but also his other nipple, the crack of his ass or the soles of his feet. Either way, it was sure to be excruciating. 

Looking anywhere but at the man's eyes, he made himself speak. The words burned like lava on his vocal chords. "Yes, master. I am sorry, master."

"That's right, pet," the man said, sounding calm and not at all surprised, or even pleased. He sounded like this was just the way things had to be, had always been: He was superior and Craig had to acknowledge that, then all would be well.

Craig found himself yearning for the man's approval.

He gave a tiny sigh of relief as the man placed the candle back on its shelf. However, the logical follow-up was for the man to take hold of the riding crop and punish Craig with it. He wasn't the type to whimper in fear or pain, but Craig did find himself painfully swallowing the dry nothing in his mouth. His ass was already flaming red. The front and back of his thighs were likewise riddled with lash-marks, and even his back must be a study in red. No matter which spot the man picked for this new punishment, it was sure to be agony. 

"Very well," the man said as he took the crop from Craig's outstretched hands, "follow me."

Apart from the toys laid out on the table, there were no BDSM paraphernalia in this plush and sweetly designed room. However,  there was an abundance of hooks embedded in the walls, floor and ceiling, cleverly hidden with drapes, curtains and fancy  nicknacks. 

Craig fought with himself for only a moment before he followed the man over to the ottoman with the red, fluffy cushion... on his hands and knees.

Upon arrival, he was praised for his obedience and got his hair petted again. Craig leaned into the hand, then froze. He burned with the sudden knowledge that this time, it wasn't his tiredness and fear of punishment that had kept him from disobeying the man's earlier instructions; this time, it was the need to please the man, to make him proud. 

Fuck. He wanted to be good for his master.

So startled was he by this realization that he took very little note of what the man - his master - was doing to him until he found himself shackled to the ottoman, his hands hugging the feet, chest flat on the cushions, with his legs spread wide behind him and his ass in the air.

A hot flash of desire ran through him as his brain linked the position with the picture the man had shown him. His hardening cock brushed up against the wooden side of the ottoman, catching only a hint of the tantalizingly soft, silky  upholstery. 

He grunted at the contact. It wasn't quite a moan, but it was  too close for comfort. 

"My beautiful pet," the man's voice caressed him.  The man was standing behind  him and Craig could imagine what he saw: Craig,  his muscles bundling up underneath his skin, the wide shoulders tensed in arousal and anticipation, his hard cock rubbing up against the ottoman between his legs spread wide  where he was tied down for his master's pleasure. 

This time, he did moan.

"My beautiful pet," the man repeated, "so good for me. Will you be good for me?" he asked,  one hand caressing Craig's ass. 

"Yes, master," he panted, pushing back into that hand, that lovely, cool touch against his hot skin.

"But you have been so naughty earlier," the man said, withdrawing his hand.

Craig felt the lack of touch like a physical blow. "I am sorry, master." It was easy to say it.

"I know, pet," the man said, "and I know you will be so good for me later, won't you?" This time, he didn't wait for an answer. Instead, he went right on speaking. "But there have to be consequences for naughty behaviour. Otherwise, you will never learn, and then where would we be?"

This question seemed to be of a rhetorical nature, as well. Craig so wanted to say something, though, anything to make the man like him better, to get back that hand, that touch, to please this man and earn his forgiveness. But what could he say?

"I am so sorry, master."

"I know, pet," the man said, and he didn't sound angry.  "Now I will punish you for your earlier disobedience, and then we can see about ways for you to make it up to me, hm?"

"Yes, please, master."

The man's voice hardened. "You will get fifty. Count them."

The first lash hit the right side of Craig's ass. It burned like fucking hell, but he didn't think it was strong enough to rend the already tender skin. Still, his breath left him in a loud whoosh. Breathing in again, he hurried to say: "One." Then, feeling the need to really please  the man, he added: "Thank you, master."

The man hummed approvingly. Something inside of Craig purred in satisfaction.

The next lashes also hit his ass. "Two. Thank you, master."

Then his shoulders. "...Fourteen. Thank you, master."

His thighs. "ArRRgh!... Twenty-nine. Thank you, master."

The soles of his feet. "AAH!... hh... hh... Thirty-seven. Thank you, master. Thirty-eight, thank you, master. ..FUCK! ….hh... hh...Thirty-nine, thank you, master. ...hh... hh... ..FUCK!... F-forty. Thank you, master."

And straight between his spread legs. "MOTHERFUCKER!!! Fuck, fuck, FUCK! ARGH! … hhh... hh... Forty-... Forty-one." This one was kind of hard. "Th-thank you, master." But he got it out.

"FOOORTY-ARGH-SHITshitSHIT!!!-T-two. Forty-two. OUCH. Thank-you, master."

"My poor pet," the man's soft voice reached him. "Suffering so much. But you are taking your punishment so beautifully, my lovely pet. So pretty when you're hurting." The cool hand was back, caressing his ass, petting it. A finger slowly trailed down his spine, then further, dipping between his cheeks and approaching his hole. Craig tensed, sucking in a hurried breath. The finger continued on, stroking around his hole, petting him there.

His cock twitched against the ottoman. Craig felt a trail of moisture connecting him to the expensive upholstery. It felt unreal.

"You will be so good to me, won't you?" the man said, and Craig felt more moisture leaking from him; this time, from his eyes.

"Yes master, yes. Please, master. _Please."_

The man tutted again. "But you haven't earned this yet, have you? There are eight more lashes left to your punishment."

Craig moaned. "Master, please! Please don't.  I will be the best pet for you, but please, please,  _fuck me now!"_

"Look at you,"  the man  said, "begging so prettily for me. You really want to please your master, don't you, pet?"

"Yes, master," Craig whispered. "Please let me serve you."

He felt that those words were significant, but couldn't remember how. But they must have been right, for  the man released him from his bonds, took hold of his collar and led him over to a big  armchair.  The man sat down in the chair, directing Craig to  kneel in front of him. 

Craig stared hungrily at the jeans-covered crotch right in front of him and didn't even flinch when a big hand gripped the back of his neck, guiding him down. He obediently bent down... and down...

_Wait._

Craig stared at the shiny black boot in front of his nose. _What the fuck._

"Well?"  The man said,  a challenge in his tone despite the soft, pleasant tone. "Lick it.  You do want to please me, don't you?"

Craig looked blankly at the black combat boot. His pulsing erection didn't let off in the slightest while he considered that this, right here, was the most humiliating moment of his entire life.

Then he started licking.

It was at this point, he  pondered later, that he  had really given in to the scene.  This was it, there was no way back. He was committed now to being his master's bitch, and if his master wanted him to shine his shoes with his tongue, Craig would fucking do it. 

And enjoy the hell out of it.

Craig took a few tentative licks, then decided the boot was clean enough for his ease of mind and began really licking the thing. He found that he trusted his master. If this man said it was a great idea for Craig to lick his boots, then a great idea it was; he wouldn't get any nasty diseases or choke on layers of dust or anything equally disgusting.

He hadn't yet spent a lot of time on the boot, however, when the strong hand left his neck and travelled up to his hair, pulling gently. "Up," his master's voice said.

Craig obeyed, puzzled and a little alarmed. Was his master dissatisfied with his performance?

But the man was smiling as he held a bottle with a straw out to Craig. "Drink this," he instructed, "and make sure to rinse your mouth well."

Trying not to get his hopes up, Craig kept his eyes firmly on the man's face as he took a few long sips of coke and swirled some of it around to wash his mouth out. His eyes slipped, however, when his master put away the bottle and reached for his zipper. "You have finally learned obedience," he commented. "Well done, pet."

Opening up his skin-tight blue jeans  and revealing a beautiful lack of underwear,  his master extracted his own hard cock.  "It's gonna be like this, pet, " he said, taking his own cock in hand and stroking it. Craig's mouth watered. " You will show me how well you can service me.  If I am pleased with your effort, I will waive those last  eight  lashes. But  if I feel even a hint of teeth, or if I suspect you aren't truly devoted to your task, you will get twenty instead."

His master held Craig's eyes for a long moment, impressing the  importance of his words on his victim, then he leaned back in seeming unconcern. "Well," he said, waving at his crotch, "go on."

Craig wanted to descend on that lovely cock like  Scrooge McDuck on a dime, but he wanted to make this  _good._ He wanted to please his master. So he slowly scooted forward on his knees, lightly brushing the tips of his fingers along the creases between his master's thighs and his hips; softly stroked his master's balls, weighing them in one hand like a precious gift; and finally wrapped one hand around the man's shaft, reverently, like he was  cupping the holy grail. Then the tip of his tongue reached out to carefully, softly trail across the tip of his master's cock. 

The man exhaled slowly. "Go on, pet," he said encouragingly. 

Craig wrapped his lips around the head of  the beautiful, hard cock.  His lips were  not as soft and pliable as he would like, but they weren't  all that rough,  either. Hopefully, they would be good enough. 

Carefully, with his focus  one hundred percent on his task, Craig began to suck his master's cock in earnest. He started out with little licks and nibbles, then advanced to taking more of the cock into his mouth  until, eventually, he found himself moaning around the hard length down his throat. 

He did not want to presume, but...

Hesitantly, looking up straight at his master and holding the man's eyes as he once again sank down on his cock to the root, Craig took hold of his master's hand and guided it to the back of his own head.

A sly smile curled his master's lips. "Oh, I see how it is."

Strong, capable fingers curled  in Craig's hair, gripping tight and pulling him off. He gasped. 

"You are doing good, pet, but it looks like you need a little more guidance, hm?" his master asked, sounding  amused. 

Craig wanted to cry in relief.  His silent offer had been understood and accepted.  "Yes, master, please."

"Very well, pet," his master said, "I will grant your wish."

The fingers stopped pulling and instead guided Craig's head back down.  Craig eagerly took the cock back into his mouth and slid down on it.  His master's hand kept him down there. "Use your tongue," his master instructed,  his hand firmly keeping Craig in place.  Craig did his best to obey:  he licked and swallowed until his air supply grew thin and he started feeling light-headed.  Then he licked some more. 

Finally, finally his master let him back up. "Take a nice deep breath for me, pet."

Craig gasped in a couple of hurried, deep breaths; then the hand pushed him back down.  This time, though, he didn't stay down there. He had barely flicked his tongue against his master's cock when the hand pulled him back up. And down again. 

His master was setting a brutal pace. The cock slid out of Craig's throat only to immediately push back in, again and again. His master rammed his cock down Craig's throat with bruising force, never withdrawing quite far enough for Craig to catch more than a hurried breath through the nose. 

But after only a very short time, Craig's eyes started watering and his nose clogged up.  His gasps grew more desperate upon every withdrawal and he felt himself  going light-headed again. 

He wanted to please his master, wanted to be so good, and this was so hot he never wanted to stop, but - but... 

"Easy, pet."  The big hand let him up and kept him there. "Breathe."

Craig drew in a huge, shuddering breath, then choked out a relieved sob.  "Thank you, master." 

He looked up at his master through watery eyes. His heart sank as he saw the man's smirk. "Now get back to work. You do want to please me, don't you?"

"Y-yes, master." He wanted to please him, he did! He also wanted to keep breathing, though.

Hesitantly, Craig lowered his head back to his master's crotch.  He pulled in a deep breath, then took the cock back into his mouth. His master's hand came down on the back of his head again and Craig braced himself  for another furious face-fucking.  It would be gorgeously hot, but - but - breath?

To his immense relief, this time his master set a slower pace, guiding Craig to only bob up and down on the cock head,  and instructing him to pay special attention to  the rim around the head.  Craig stretched and curled his tongue until it ached, striving to give his master the best blowjob ever - not only because he wanted to please him, but also because he wanted to keep breathing freely for a bit longer. 

Somewhere along the line, his master's second hand came down on his head and both hands started caressing him, stroking through his hair, petting his cheeks and fondling his chin like a lover's.  "You are so good for me, pet," the man said and the words were the sweetest caress of all.  Craig moaned around the cock in his mouth and kept his hands firmly on his master, despite his own erection screaming for attention. 

His master still noticed, though. "My lovely pet, are you feeling neglected?" 

Free to move his head as his master's hands were both occupied with tender caresses, Craig lifted his mouth off his master's cock. "No, master!"

The man chuckled. "Very good, pet.  But I do believe you need  some attention." His booted foot slipped between Craig's knees and advanced until the tip bumped up against Craig's balls. 

Craig moaned and fell back onto the cock with a will.

His master's boot  began rubbing tiny circles against his balls, nudging up against them, then letting up again, sliding smoothly along the sensitive skin. Then the boot travelled upwards, sides brushing against his cock and one thigh.  There wasn't much friction, just enough to tease and to make his cock ache for more. Twisting around a little, the  boot bumped up against Craig's hip while the sole brushed his cock. 

"Focus," his master's firm voice commanded and Craig  noticed with despair that he had let his attention wander from his task.  He went back to his job with intense focus... which lasted until his master began rubbing the rough sole of his boot against  Craig's cock. 

Gasping, Craig let his master's cock slip from his lips. He immediately recovered it, pressing out a hurried "So sorry, master!" before he sank back down onto the wonderful piece of supreme anatomy, but the damage was done. His master's hand came down on the back of his neck and pulled him up, like a mother cat's teeth clutching her wayward kitten. 

Intense blue eyes bored into Craig's own.  "Will you focus and show me proper devotion?"

Craig shuddered. If he failed in this task, it would be twenty lashes and he was sure they would fall where it really hurt. He couldn't lie to his master, though. That would be...worse. Somehow, he was sure, it would turn out worse for him.

Sweat broke out all over his body as he forced himself to unclench his teeth and answer the question.

"I - I - Master, I am sorry. I am devoted, I've never been so fucking devoted to anything in my life, but master, you are just so  _distracting!"_ His eyes sank to the floor and he felt his shoulders hunching up as he awaited his punishment.

What he got instead was a quiet chuckling noise, slowly expanding into full-out laughter. He looked up, startled, and met his master's eyes. Mirth lived in those no longer steely blues, making them dance with joy. "Well," his master said, "I can't fault your honesty."

The man seemed to consider Craig for a moment before he obviously decided on a course of action. "Get up," he ordered curtly.

Craig hesitantly got to his feet. "Master?"

Not giving anything away, his master directed him to "Stand over there." Craig did. His master  blindfolded him, then  had him spread his legs wide  so he could  attach ropes to each ankle, fixing them in position. Next, Craig was made to raise his arms and those, too, were tied up with ropes looped through some hoops dangling from the low ceiling. Craig ended up standing spread-eagled in the middle of what he knew to be a damn heart-shaped red carpet with plenty of room all around him. 

_Wide enough to even wield a bull-whip in._

No sooner had he thought it than he heard his master opening a cupboard somewhere behind him.  Craig shuddered, wanting to lower his arms to protect his sensitive privates. No dice, though: His arms were tied up with precise, solid safety knots. His master would be able to undo them with a single tug, but the correct ends of the ropes were outwith his reach, leaving Craig helplessly at his master's mercy. 

As he had been ever since the man snatched him from his bed in the middle of the night.

His master had threatened twenty more lashes if Craig did not perform up to scratch, but he hadn't specified with what implement. He could be holding a cat o'nine tails for all Craig knew. He shivered, muscles once again bunching up in a useless attempt to lower his arms to his crotch. His master could hit him with whatever he pleased and Craig would just have to take it. 

It frightened and exhilarated him.

So much power, such dominance, all just for him. It was like playing with fire, only better because he knew if he got burned, the flame would turn itself into water in order to protect him.

The thought focused and centred him. His master would punish him, yes; but no more than he deserved, and more importantly: never more than he could take. As he had promised that first night, his master had pushed him to his limits, but never beyond. Never so far as to make him crash, make him feel unsafe.

_This is fine, Craig told himself firmly. _Even if he comes back with a bloody chainsaw, it's fine. I can trust him._ _

__

His master did not come back with a chainsaw. Rather, he came back with something that tickled as it brushed first across his left nipple, then his right. Next, the many-tailed thing brushed up against his crotch and Craig shivered. This could be anything, and it might hit his cock and balls any moment now.

It... didn't really feel threatening, though. In fact, it felt very much like a suede flogger, but that was a ridiculous thought. What would his master want with such a cute little toy? They were playing a game on a much higher level and -

_Swat._

Craig blinked. That did feel like suede, all soft and more like a caress than an actual lash.

"Twenty," his master announced. "Count them." The cute little flogger came down on his nipples again.  _Swat._

"You've gotta be fucking kidding me," Craig blurted.

"Pet, you were doing so well," his master sighed, acting all put upon. "Do you really want to start questioning me now?" His master may act annoyed, but Craig could hear the grin in his voice. The bastard wasn't even trying to hide it.

Well. Craig wasn't really keen on cock and ball torture when he could be sucking his master's glorious cock instead, not to mention his master might deign to give his own prick some much-needed attention once this was done. Craig was afraid he was going to die of blue balls if this game went on much longer, so - did he really want to stop his master from giving him an easy out on those remaining twenty lashes?

"One, thank you master," he decided to say, as meekly as he could make it. "And two, thank you, oh my master."

Er. Maybe that should have been as _cheek_ _il_ _y_ as he could make it.

His master just laughed, though. "Very good, pet." Then he apparently drew back the little flogger and brought it down with his full strength, because the next hit across his chest actually smarted.

"Three, master," Craig said after a tiny surprised exhalation. His master dealt him a few more strong lashes like that one. The ninth one, though, was again more like a caress to his open hand.

Craig frowned. "Eight and a half, master."

His master laughed again. "Not good enough for you, huh?"

And suddenly, Craig had no idea where it had come from, a _real_ flogger hit the same hand. It felt like it might have been made from tire tubes, all hard rubber that gave a loud crack as it hit and made his skin burn like he'd held it in a nettle bush.

"Nine, thank you master!" Craig yelped. Two more lashes with the rubber flogger rained down on his upper thighs, dangerously close to his erect cock. "Ten, thank you master, eleven, thank you master," Craig hurried to cry out. He didn't want to have any of _these_ lashes repeated for lack of counting!

Laughing again, his master brought down the rubber whip on his chest. Craig kept counting. He was breathing hard and starting to sweat once more as he anticipated each blow when suddenly, there was a soft, tentative nudge against his balls. A moment later, the suede flogger hit straight up between his legs. Craig grunted; even in suede, that hurt. Not... not really enough, though. Not after he had tasted the rubber whip. They were already at eighteen. He wanted... but then he didn't. Or did he? He really, really didn't. And yes, he _did._

 _Dammit._ "Eighteen and a half, thank you, master."

"Huh," he heard his master say and this time, he heard the tiny swishing sound of the suede strands as his master switched whips. Craig gulped, bracing himself.

The rubber whip snapped up between his tensely spread legs and it was _agony._

"Nineteen!" Craig howled. "Th-thank you, master." He tried to silence his own panting breaths, trying to listen for the tell-tale creak of the rubber flogger drawing back for the final lash. Every muscle tense, he prepared as best he could for that last lash that would surely deepen the agony of the previous one.

Why oh why did he think this was a good idea?

His cock pulsed at him angrily.

_Oh, yeah, that's why._

Swat!

The final lash fell true, straight up between his legs again, punishing his already sore balls and lapping up to burn the root of his cock.

Craig nearly came.

"Twenty, master, thank you," he babbled, "oh good lord, thank you!"

His head hung down, his breathing was way too fast and his legs shuddered. Sometime after his master had first switched to the rubber whip, Craig's hands had found their way around those ropes and he had been clinging to them tightly. He was grateful for it now because his legs were about to give out on him.

Suddenly, a strong arm wrapped around his torso, pulling him back against a hot, smooth-skinned body with rippling muscles and a very prominent erection.

_Master._

The man's other hand ruffled through his sweat-dampened hair in a friendly caress. "You did well, pet," his master whispered in his ear.

Something in Craig clenched in hot joy. He had done well.

"You were so good for me, counting all those lashes and letting me know when you needed more," his master continued. "You did so well, my beautiful pet."

Craig soaked up the praise like water on a dry sponge.

His master shifted slightly and the tip of his cock nudged against Craig's hole. Craig gasped out a shameful little sound somewhere between "Unh!" and "More!"

Then his master's hand was trailing through his pubes. Craig's breath hitched. He had waited, hoped, despaired to ever get his master's attention where he most desired it. Was he finally getting it now? He wanted to beg, wanted to implore his master to please, please get him off, to stroke him, to fuck him, to take him any way he pleased, to just please please give Craig his release!

But...

It wasn't his decision, was it? Could he allow himself to beg anything of his master? His master would do as he saw fit, surely; what did Craig's wishes matter really?

A rather distressed sound followed the previous, overwhelmed noise of desire. His master's hand withdrew, eliciting another whine.

"Pet?" his master asked, cautious. "What do you want?"

That one was easy. "I want to be a good pet, master," he said, instantly. "I want to please my master."

His hair was ruffled again and Craig rejoiced in it. He had done well.

"Good boy," his master said. It should have been humiliating, but somehow it just made Craig harder.

Having doled out a morsel of praise, his master's hands returned downward, lavishing teasing little touches, light tickles and caresses all over Craig's cock and balls, his thighs, up to his nipples and underneath his arms.

Craig started writhing in his bonds like he hadn't done when his master was flogging him. The touches were sweet and wonderful, but so many of them were too soft, too light - there and gone. A tickle rather than a grasp, a teasing caress rather than a firm stroke.

"Master..." Craig found himself gasping. "Master, _please!"_

His master chuckled and just continued the feather light touches. "What is it you want, pet?"

There was no censorship in his words and Craig's memory belatedly returned to him his master's words going into all this: he wanted to see Craig crawl and cry and _beg_ for him. It may not have been a conscious decision on Craig's part at first, but he had done exactly what his master desired. And there was no reason not to do it again - his shame at the humiliation had already been left behind on the first couple of miles down this road.

Screams and harsh, panting breaths had weighed on Craig's voice over the last...couple of days? Single day? He had slept several times, but he knew quite well that meant nothing. However long it may have been, the time span since he was abducted from his home had contained enough reason for him to cry out and yell and pant that his vocal cords had noticeably suffered. Thus, it was with a raspy, slightly pained voice that Craig demanded: "Fuck me, master, _please_ finally fuck me!"

"Alright," his master said, ruffling his hair again.

Craig felt himself flush with pleasure.

He shivered a little when his master's hot body withdrew from his own, then felt himself flush all over as he realized his master was already completely naked. No longer was the man's cock springing from a lowered zipper in those delicious blue jeans; it now stood up straight and proud from a naked body that looked absolutely gorgeous - from behind, as well. Craig licked his lips.

When the man reached another cupboard, he bent down as though playing to his audience's undivided attention, displaying his powerful thighs to Craig's gaze and an ass so taut you could probably bounce a fifty pound weight off of it without denting the skin.

His master came back up and turned around, lube in one hand, a condom in the other, and a huge smirk plastered across his face. "I said I'd wait until you earned it, pet, but it's been hard to keep my paws off your gorgeous ass that long," his master admitted.

Craig choked out a startled laugh.

In no time, his master was behind him and a well-lubed, large finger was sliding around Craig's hole. "This what you want?" his master asked playfully.

"Fucking _yes,_ master!" Craig groaned, shoving his ass back as far as his bonds would allow. _"Please!"_

Chuckling, his master pushed the digit inside.

_Heaven,_ Craig thought, and then:  _More!_

He tried to poke his ass back even further and whined, frustrated, when he found himself unable to.

A mild slap hit his welt-riddled ass, causing him to yelp in surprise. "Behave, pet," his master admonished him, "and let me handle this."

And handle it he did.

Rarely had Craig looked forward to being fucked like he did today, after this man had teased and tortured him for what were probably going on two entire days. It was no wonder, then, that his master's fingers seemed to slip inside with barely any resistance, Craig's body loosening up and welcoming the intruders like long-lost friends.

"You're really aching for it, aren't you?" his master asked as he pushed in a fourth finger, and Craig could only nod. "Need you, master, please," he said once he had adjusted to the girth and words were possible again. His master twisted his hand, making Craig gasp. "Master, please, _more!"_

"More, huh?" his master said. The fingers moved back and forth a little, then a fifth tried to wriggle its way inside. Craig grunted, wanting it, but there was more pain than pleasure in it this time. His master tried a bit longer, then stopped. "Maybe some other time," he decided.

The hand withdrew. Craig's eyes widened in horror. Had his master just been teasing him again?

He must have tensed up, for his master immediately noticed something was wrong. A hand came down on his shoulder, gently massaging tense muscles, and a soft voice queried: "I'm sorry, I just don't feel that you're loose enough for fisting at the moment."

Craig spluttered. "Fisting?!"

"No," his master said, sounding confused. "As I just said, we're not doing that today. That would take more preparation, maybe some butt plugs first, and... But if that's not what had you worried, why did you tense up?"

Craig felt himself blushing again. "Are you... Are you still going to fuck me?"

"Oh!" His master sounded like a light bulb had just been switched on for him. "That's what that was about?" Before Craig had the time to feel embarrassed about his apparently wrong assumption, his master had leaned in close and was whispering in his ear: "Short of your safeword, literally nothing could keep me from fucking you now, pet."

Craig shuddered and he had no idea whether it was with pleasure or trepidation. He just knew that his master sounded dangerous and that he really, really wanted what the man was offering.

_"Please,"_ he begged once more. 

"Yes, pet," his master's husky voice breathed in his ear. Then there was a hand at his entrance, and a blunt tip, and then his master was pushing inside.

"Uh," Craig made. His master's cock was sliding inside him, filling him, hot and hard and eager to claim him. He'd never felt so  _owned_ by another man. 

His master's cock slowly sank in to the root - and wow, was that a long way in -, then withdrew just as slowly. "Are you good?" his master asked, hot breath puffing into Craig's ear.

"Yes, master," he answered. "Please, please _fuck me_ , master!"

Once again, he could hear the smirk in the man's voice. "Very well, pet."

Later, Craig would sometimes try to figure out how long his master had fucked him and time and again, he would fail. From the moment his master first slammed into him with ferocious power and dominance and desire, his brain shorted out. He was a hot mess of desperate need and frantic motion, of urgent, burning desire and animal instinct, pushed toward his body's limits and beyond, until his orgasm took him with the force of a derailing train, all steaming heat and powerful motion and not an ounce of self-determination.

Craig's body clenched and shuddered in its bonds as he came harder and longer than ever before. It was exhilarating, a little painful, and oh so very, very good.

Once his own shaking ceased, his body continued to be shoved back and forth, and he gloried in the feeling of serving his master's pleasure until, with a tightening of the man's arms around his chest, his master stilled behind him. A soft, hurt sound escaped him, barely audible over Craig's panting breath.

Then it was over. Craig remained strung up in the middle of the room, waiting for his breathing to calm back down while he was held tightly in the safety of his master's arms.

"You alright?" his master eventually asked.

"Yessir," Craig answered, breathing normally again but worn out to a point he hadn't thought possible. A warm chuckle told him he might not have said that right, but his partner didn't seem to mind so that was fine.

The hug ended and that was sad, but then there were warm hands at his ankles, releasing his feet from their bonds, shortly followed by his hands. Craig took his arms down and rubbed his wrists, making sure they were unharmed and that the blood was still flowing through them the way it should. It was.

The warm hands were back, grasping his shoulders and firmly directing him toward the bathroom where he was stood under a lovely warm shower and soaped down from head to toe. He knew that some nice, cool water made its way down his parched throat and someone - himself? someone else? It was a bit hazy - brushed his teeth. A little while later, he found himself back on the rug in front of the tacky fireplace with a blanket thrown over him. Were there flames dancing in the grate? He didn't know and didn't care. All he knew was that he was warm and comfy and all fucked out.

Craig went to sleep with a large, blissed out smile on his face.

* * *

The fire burned merrily in the grate. Feeling accomplished, Steve got back to his feet and quietly retreated to the little antechamber. He selected Sergey's number and hit Call. A moment later, Sergey's calm voice sounded in his ear.

_"The Corner Gym, Sergey speaking. What's up?"_

"This is Steve," he said, certain that the happiness in his voice was bubbling down the line and giving the ever-serious proprietor hives. "I haven't gotten consent yet, but judging by the way we've been going, the show is on."

There was no more inflection in Sergey's voice than before, but Steve still felt like the man was amused as he replied: _"Good for you. I'll tell the boys to be at_ _the_ _S_ _nakes and Ladders._ _If you show up with a nice something to go on the block, great. If you don't, we'll enjoy the party without you."_

Steve laughed. "We'll be there," he promised. "Thanks for organizing this."

_"No trouble at all,"_ Sergey replied, bland as always; Steve just  _knew_ he had to be smirking internally.

After hanging up with Sergey, Steve called Natasha. "Nat? Are you still willing to help me make a special someone real pretty?"

Natasha's voice swept through the speaker like a wave of creamy, dark chocolate. _"You know I've got your back, Rogers. When do you need me to get your_ _pretty girl_ _ready?"_

"He just went to sleep. The auction's supposed to start at ten. So... tonight around seven?"

_"You got it,"_ Natasha confirmed,  before the signal told Steve she'd hung up. 

Having put the key players in motion, Steve went over his gear. He checked that he had his coat and his suit - the black tie kind, not his Avengers uniform -, along with all the necessary underwear, shirt, shoes and what else went with a suit; but also, next to it, a more interesting collection of accessories. He tried on the mask himself once more, making sure it would not smudge any make-up or lipstick while rendering the wearer completely blind, then put it back on Craig's pile, right atop the frilly stockings.

Finally happy with his preparations, Steve set his phone - just in case - to ring no later than six p.m. and sneaked back into the main room. Still feeling immensely pleased with himself and looking forward to the evening, Steve prepared to get some real rest before the party tonight.

And so it was that around eleven a.m. on Labor Day, a thoroughly content Steve Rogers went to sleep on a plush, red sofa overlooking a playroom with a cheerfully crackling fireplace, in front of which lay his equally sated kidnapping victim, calmly sleeping without a clue what the evening held in store for him.

* * *

For the first time since he had been kidnapped from his bed in the middle of the night, Craig woke feeling rested. He had been allowed periods of sleep, but he suspected that not one of those naps corresponded to a full night, especially since this was only supposed to take one weekend altogether. It made sense to assume, then, that he hadn't exactly been granted a full six to eight hours each time.

This time, though, he felt as though he had slept an entire night... and day. While he felt all his bruises from the long, strenuous, but oh so rewarding session, he also felt alert and energetic like he hadn't been since all this had started.

His unusual wakefulness allowed him to spot the new addition to his prison the moment he opened his eyes: There was a digital clock sitting on the mantle, right above his feet, showing the time and place.

Craig froze.

According to this clock, it was 3 p.m. - on _Monday._

"What?!" he growled.

"Easy there," came his master's - _his kidnapper's_ , he told himself firmly, _who had broken his word -_ voice from behind him. The man sitting on the settee above where Craig had slept on the rug seemed entirely unruffled by Craig's outburst and the hands that came to rest on Craig's shoulders were calm and steady. "Happy Labor Day," his mas- _dammit! -_ the _man_ said, and there was a strange, humorous lilt to his voice as though he was mocking Craig. 

"Fuck you," Craig spat. "Who cares about... oh."

Labor Day. Huh. 

Craig knew he could blame it on being ripped from his bed at dumbfuck o'clock in the morning and kept on his toes ever since, but he still felt  like a dunce  to have forgotten about the holiday.  And to have yelled at his master for it. 

"Erm, sorry," he offered hesitantly, unsure if he should get on his knees to beg for his master's forgiveness.  Were they still playing?  It had been an exciting, but also a long and wearing two and a half days, for both of them he thought.  And after last... night? This morning? Well, after whenever it was that they had finished playing, he was entirely satisfied with the encounter and ready to go back home. If the other man wanted to continue the scene, though, and Craig had just insulted him... He gulped. 

To his relief, h is master laughed.  "Don't sweat it," he said easily,  in that deep voice that had  called him  _pet_ while his master fucked him. 

Craig shivered. 

"Is something wrong?" his master asked, sounding worried. 

"No, master," Craig said. The address flowed off his tongue naturally before he had given it any thought. Huh. "Just... remembering.  In a good way."

"Ah," his master said, this time with a smile in his voice. "That's alright, then."

The hands left Craig's shoulders as his master stood up and stepped around him, reaching down a hand to Craig. "Get up and let's have breakfast," the man said. 

Craig noticed that at some point, food had once again magically appeared on the table. Nature called, however, and he detoured to the bathroom. 

"Take your time and have a shower if you want," his master... the other man told him, "there's no hurry."

It felt strange to be so casually treated by this man, no longer  as a slave or pet to be ordered around, but more like a friend who had spent the night. 

Weird. 

But maybe a good weird.  It was nice to see that the man who could dominate him so effortlessly did not make a habit of it outside of a scene.  Craig disliked doms who thought they needed to boss everyone around in their daily life.  It would have been a shame to find out his wonderful master belonged to that particular  group of jackasses. 

It nearly didn't feel strange at all to clothe himself in one of the bathrobes hanging from hooks on the bathroom door after his shower.  Wrapped in fluffy green flannel, Craig exited the bathroom after some twenty minutes or so  and joined his... the other man whose name he still did not know - huh - at the table. 

"What's your name?" he asked as he sat down. 

The tall blond man gave a delighted laugh. "That's right, I never introduced myself. Sorry!" He held out a hand. "I'm Steve."

Craig took it. "Craig," he said, "but you already knew that." They shook. 

Shaking his head, Craig served himself some bread and cheese. "Steve, huh? Are you even kidding me?"

'Steve'  smirked. "And what, pray tell, is wrong with my name?"

Craig snorted. "Like you don't already know.  You're built like Captain America, your face could be a copy of his, your strength is off the charts, and now you're telling me your name is  _Steve?_ Come on!"

Steve laughed. "I see you have me all figured out."

"Fine, fine, keep your secrets," Craig said, mock-offended. If the other man didn't want to tell him his real name, that was his prerogative. Not everyone was ready to bring their real names to a scene; there was always some danger of word getting out and about where one didn't need it, after all. 

Steve, however, did not let it rest at that. "I will not tell you my entire tragic life story," he said with a smirk, "but my name really is Steve."

"Figures," Craig said, this time accepting it. There was no good reason for Steve to lie to him, and it might as well be true. Fate was strange like that. 

"So," Steve said just when Craig had taken a nice big gulp of OJ, "I have an indecent proposal for you."

Cursing, Craig lowered his glass and tried to get the juice he had accidentally snorted up to leave his burning nose.  A look at Steve showed the bastard to be smiling serenely.  _Sadist. Fucking figures,_ Craig thought with no small amount of humour. 

When he was finally able to function again, Craig looked at Steve. "Alright, you have my attention. Shoot."

Steve smiled, a warm smile this time. "First, let me say that I enjoyed our session a damn lot. I don't often get to play this hard." 

_No surprises there,_ thought Craig. He didn't think many other guys could withstand the sheer power this man brought to the table.  He cracked a smile. "Yeah, likewise," he said. It couldn't be more true. He never hit this hard himself, and he'd certainly never  _been_ handled like this. 

"Glad to hear it," said Steve. "Now, there are two options open to you. Option one, we have this nice afternoon brunch together, then I give you some decent outdoors clothes and drive you home."

That was pretty much what Craig had expected. But what was the other option?

Craig didn't think he wanted to continue this scene any longer, so what was -? Heh. His cock apparently hadn't gotten the memo yet. The mere possibility of playing  some more with this man had it hardening underneath the bathrobe. 

"Option two," Steve said, unaware of the current conflict between Craig's body and mind, "is this." With these words, he reached behind him and took up a sheet of paper. 

Craig froze. 

He had seen two sheets of paper just like this the other day. One had shown him his own sleeping form, and the other... The other had been a fantasy he could all too easily get behind.  What was he going to see this time?

With trembling hands, Craig took hold of the picture and turned it around.  He stared. 

He continued staring for so long that Steve got nervous. "It's just an offer," the blond  work of art said. "If you want to do it, we get you ready and then head out to the club tonight. If not, as I said, I'll just drive you home, no hard feelings. Okay? ...Craig, answer me, please. You've got me a little worried here."

Answer. He had to answer... Yes, yes of course. 

Craig did the only thing that seemed an appropriate answer to this particular offer.  Opening his bathrobe, he let it slide to the floor, revealing his now rock hard erection. Then he followed the robe to the floor and crawled over to his master on hands and knees. Upon arriving, he lifted hazy eyes up to this beautiful, wonderful man and said: "Yes master. Yes,  _please!"_

* * *

It was strange, Craig thought as he fought to keep his face still, to have color applied to the inside of his eyelids. The pencil brushed up against a part of his body that nothing so harsh should ever touch. How did women stand this? 

As soon as the smooth, delicate hands let go of his chin, Craig's eyes returned to the mirror. He watched with baited breath as the woman - who looked  _so much_ like the Black Widow it wasn't even funny, and where did David  _find_ these people? - put down the eyeliner and picked up yet another little brush.  This one was apparently for the eyelids, as was the one following it. Craig didn't even try to understand the logic of the process, but he certainly admired the result. 

Little by little, his hard, angular face was being transformed into something smooth, soft and... well, okay, pretty garish.  He could tell by the woman's own  classy  make-up that she was a dab hand at this, so what she was doing to him was obviously intentional. If  his cheeks ended up being a bit too rosy, the eyes a little too  smoky and the lips red enough to make Iron Man blush, then  that  must be the effect she wanted to achieve.  There was nothing hesitant about her, not an ounce of doubt in what she was doing. With  impressive skill and speed, this woman was transforming his face into that of a beautiful, alluring... slut. 

His cock feebly tried to twitch at the thought, but only managed to bump up against its cage.  The blush on Craig's cheeks deepened, the artificial color being augmented by the blood heating his face. 

The woman took a quick peek at his crotch, smirked, then went back to her task.  Craig admired her cool. 

The cage was a new experience for Craig. He had put similar implements on his own subs a time or two, but never actually worn one himself. His blush deepened while he remembered how his master had put it on him. 

After their meal, his master had led him into the bathroom once more and drawn them both a bath. Then he had taken his time to shave every inch of Craig's body.  It had been as humiliating as it had been hot.  When his master was done, he had directed Craig to feel the results for himself. Craig had shivered in discomfort mixed with arousal.  Stroking a hand down his own thigh had never felt this erotic. 

Upon leaving the bath, his master had commanded him to stand still while he dried him off with a fluffy, pink towel.  And while Craig was still soft and relaxed from the hot water, his master had put the cage on him.  "This will help you not to do anything you aren't meant to do tonight, pet." 

Craig had thanked him for it. 

The woman who looked like the Black Widow stepped back and looked him over critically. Giving a satisfied nod, she then quickly gathered the plethora of colors, brushes, pads and pencils back into her pouch.  "All done, precious," she said, patting him lightly on the cheek. 

He wanted to glower and protest the pet name, but all that came out was a mildly confused: "Thank you, mistress."

A delighted laugh was his reward.  "You've really trained this one well, Steve," the woman said as she exited the bath. 

"So I have," his master answered. An impish delight colored his next words. "Want to see him do some tricks?"

Craig gulped. 

It turned out that they were way ahead of schedule and needed to kill some time. 

"Let's not do anything too strenuous, though," his master's blessed voice declared. "After all, he needs to be fit for tonight."

"Well how about you do the tricks then?" the woman said  in a challenging, if amused tone. 

"I could...," his master said, ponderous. 

Craig's eyes widened. "Master, please, no."

Both his master and his friend turned to Craig with questioning looks. "Why not, dear?"

"It would... I don't know. It just doesn't feel right at all," he confessed. "Seeing you taking the other role while I still need you to be my strong master tonight would be... not so great, I think."

Steve's eyes widened in sudden understanding. "Oh, of course. That makes sense.  I hope the mere suggestion wasn't enough to throw you?"

Craig considered. "No, I'll be fine. But I'd really rather you didn't." While it was interesting to know that even this strong, immensely dominant alpha male sometimes subbed, it was not something he wanted to see right now. Not when in about two hours, he would need all his faith in his master to brave what the future held for him. 

"Well alright," the woman said. "Who's up for a round of poker?"

* * *

And then it was time to go. 

On his way out the door, Craig looked at his own reflection in the floor-to-ceiling mirror for a long time. It was bizarre. This, his reflection, was a virtual stranger. Never in his wildest dreams had he considered that he could look like this. 

And like it. 

Shiny red, low-heeled shoes hugged his feet. His hairless legs were clad in soft, dark stockings held up by a red garter belt that had little bows at the end of each strap.  A corset, black with red inlays, pressed his torso into a decidedly more feminine shape while also restricting his air supply some.  His throat was adorned by a black leather play collar with flashy red ornaments.  Amongst all the red frill and lace, the cage imprisoning his cock barely even registered. 

And his face... His face really was a work of art.  While the colors were admittedly loud and garish, emphasizing doe eyes and red, red lips, the entire  _shape_ of it seemed to have been changed into something infinitely more  _feminine_ and less  _him_ than he would have thought possible. 

The person in the mirror bore only the most superficial resemblance to the Craig Cartison he knew. And yet, this was him.  This was really him, and he was really going to do this. 

"Ready?" his master asked, shrugging his suit into place and handing Craig a coat. 

Craig stared for a moment longer, then slowly hid his startling new form  underneath the coat. "Yes, master."

* * *

Stepping out the door of his temporary prison to find a limousine with darkened windows idling at the curb was maybe more surreal than anything that had gone before. Only his master's steady hand guiding him allowed Craig to duck his head and enter the back as though it were _normal._

They dropped off his master's lady friend along the way; the club was guys only.  Craig had been there before, knew a number of the regulars.  For the same reason he had not wanted to see his master play a submissive role, he didn't want some of the subs here to see him like this. As such, he was grateful for the mask his master had provided him. 

Even though it made him literally his master's bitch. 

Sighing deeply, Craig slipped  the dog's mask over his head.  "I'm the prettiest bitch in town," he pronounced even as his sight went dark. 

A deep chuckle and a short click told him his master had leaned over in his seat to attach the lead to Craig's collar.  "You'll be even prettier with a lovely, bushy tail, though, my pet." 

Heat shot through Craig's stomach.  "Master?"

"Bend over, pet."

Trembling with nerves and excitement, Craig  stripped out of his coat,  brought his knees up on the seat and presented his ass to his master. Cool, slick fingers were immediately upon him.  "Ah!" 

Craig tried to keep the noise down, he really did. This car had a  _driver,_ dammit, and Craig didn't need to make a spectacle  of himself for that complete stranger. After all, maybe the poor  sod had just been hired by his master to drive them tonight, with no idea as to the kind of perverts that would be his passengers. 

Some noises still escaped him, though, when his master's fingers roughly widened him before a handy plug was unceremoniously shoved inside him. "Mah! Master," Craig gasped. 

"There," his master declared in satisfaction. "Now you're all bushy-tailed loveliness."

His master stood up and made his way to the door. Craig heard the car door open, then a tug on his leash and his master's words, "Come along, pet," urged him to leave the safety of the car. Hesitantly, hampered as much by the unfamiliar shoes as by his own blindness, Craig set first one foot on the sidewalk, then the other. The hair of the fake dog's tail brushed against his smooth thighs, making him shiver.

"I've got you," his master's low voice rumbled next to his ear as a firm hand took hold of his elbow.

And the thing was, Craig trusted this voice. Trusted it implicitly. His master had never lied to him, never steered him wrong in all the intense hours they had shared.

It should have been difficult, crossing the sidewalk over to the club's entrance, in full view of any potential passers-by, dressed as he was in a highly feminine bit of nothing, a dog's head mask and a dog's tail anal plug. And yet with his master by his side, guiding and supporting him - it was easy.

Head held high, Craig entered the _Snakes and Ladders_ by his master's side. 

Inside, his master handled all the formalities while loud music wafted up the stairs and a number of other people milled around in the entrance hall. Then down they went into the dark, noisy belly of the beast. 

There was a side door in the club that  opened unto another play room during some of the parties and was locked during others. Craig couldn't see it, but today it held a "Private Function" sign. As the door closed behind them, the music softened to a distant, dull roar. 

Craig's ears immediately picked up the sounds of people moving,  talking,  some of them stepping closer as he was led through the room by his master  amongst making various noises of appreciation. One even clapped. 

Then, David's voice identified the clapper. "Dang it, Cap, you really did it!"

More people started applauding, there were wolf whistles and a number of fairly insulting words of praise. 

Craig felt like a lamb being lead to the slaughter. He was blind and defenceless before this pack of wolves who wanted nothing more than to devour him.  He didn't know how many of them there were, and only had his master's words that there were  anywhere between five and twenty- five doms present.  And that everyone would play nice and respect his safeword. 

He trusted his master, though.  It was going to be fine. 

It was going to be fine. 

He gulped, trying and failing to wet his dry throat. His stomach was clenching with nervous excitement and he was feeling decidedly light-headed. 

This was it. He was really doing this. 

God help him. 

"Ready to face the music?" His master's voice was low and soft in his ear. 

Craig took a deep breath - as deep as the corset would allow him, anyway - and let it out slowly. Then he said: "Yes master" and slid to his knees. 

Steady, strong hands took hold of the mask and carefully removed it from his face. Craig blinked against the sudden light, remembering in the last moment  not to wipe at his eyes with his hands and smudge his make-up. 

Slowly, his eyes adjusted to the light and Craig saw the room around him.  Yes, it was the little side room he had been in once or twice before. But instead of the usual array of SM furniture - a rack, a swing, a breeding bench and some other useful  items -, today the room held only a raised platform,  a podium ... and a full two dozen men. 

Craig gulped. 

"Thank you all for coming," his master said, eliciting some jeering and laughter from the crowd. Craig could hear the amusement in his voice as his master continued. "Some of you may know my pet here as a ferocious, capable dom. Today, though, he is here as my pet and yes, gentlemen, this bitch is up for auction."

Applause and more wolf-whistles followed.

"We will be bidding on five items tonight: First, a hand job."

Craig held his face impassive. That should be easy enough.

"Second, a blow job. With rubber, obviously."

Alright.

"Third, the opportunity to spank this naughty bitch."

Craig gulped. Some of his bruises and welts were already starting to shift from red to black. He had a pretty good idea of what it would do to those if new bruises were to be applied on top of them.

"Fourth, an act of submission of your choice. "

That... didn't sound ominous at all. Craig unconsciously shifted closer to his master's legs.

"You have all been briefed, but I reserve the right to veto any ideas I find off-putting or dangerous. ...And finally: the highest bidder gets to fuck my lovely bitch until she screams. All proceeds will be donated to the Corner Gym. - Now, let's get this show on the road!"

Craig watched with wide eyes as twenty-four men got ready to bid on his body - on his hands, his mouth, his ass. And, which was somehow so much better and so much worse, on his mind. Because it was the mind that submitted, not the body. And his master had promised his submission to this crowd. To any and all of them, if only they bid high enough.

"Pet, it'll be alright," his master said quietly. And huh, when had he crouched down beside Craig?

Looking up, he saw another man behind the podium, holding up the gavel. His master, though, was behind him, his hands on Craig's shoulders and head bent to whisper encouragement in Craig's ear.

"I know all of these guys personally, most of them from the gym; they are a good bunch. Loud, sure, but amicable. They'll do right by you."

Before Craig could wonder what his master's definition of "do right by him" could possibly entail, his master was already answering his unspoken question with a firm, though obviously amused voice. "Meaning they will indeed hurt you and fuck you until you scream. Remember, you chose this, pet. Enjoy."

* * *

Hours later, Craig took stock of what the evening had brought him.

His throat was so sore he could only talk in a whisper. His stockings were completely ruined, the knees cut open against the hard stone floor and the rest of the material spattered with come and ...other fluids. He had lost track of his tail and even the cock cage was gone. His corset was ripped and stained, his collar had scuff marks, and his beautiful make-up was smudged and smeared, some of it washed away by tears and some rubbed off against muscular thighs as he choked again and again on a relentless, large cock. His hole was hot and pulsing, protesting the repeated use it had seen this night. And for some reason, he was wearing only one shoe.

How was Craig to know that this group was so incredibly magnanimous that when two people bid the highest amount at the same time and neither wanted to raise, they would just decide that they had won the price _together?_ Or that it was just understood that while one person was spanking him, others were free to apply clamps, feathers and whatever else came to mind to any surface not currently being worked on by the winner?

Strong, warm arms circled Craig's chest and pulled him into a strong embrace "Master," he sighed and burrowed into the warmth and safety.

"Ready to go home, pet?" his master murmured softly in his ear. "You did so well, pet, so incredibly well. I am so, so proud of you."

"Master," Craig sighed again, content. Hazily, he pondered the question. Did he want to go home?

Kind of. But also... not. Not yet.

He was dead on his feet. He had been used beyond what he thought even his strong body would be able to take, and yet with his master's encouragement, he had managed to go further, push himself more, take that second cock and that stronger hit and all the abuse the spectators had heaped on him. He had completely let go. For the space of an hour or two, Craig Cartison had ceased to exist, replaced by a fiery ball of need and lust and utter submission to his master's will. His master had willed him to serve these other masters, and so he had. He had given it his all, and dear god had he done well. Toward the end, the rewards had kept coming in and he was sore, sore like you wouldn't believe from coming until he had nothing left to give.

And now it was over - and he didn't want it to be.

Usually, when he came to the club as a master, he would bring his own sub or find one amongst the crowd. If he brought someone, he would proudly show off his sub to the other guests, leading them around and spanking them in some very public place.

That was...

"Master?" he said, hesitantly. "Do you still have my mask?"

"Yes, pet. I know you will want to wear it on the way out."

"Yes, but..."

"But what, pet? Anything you want, if I can give it to you, it's all yours."

"Could we maybe..." He cleared his sore throat but the words were still hard to get out. "Could we go the long way around?"

His master laughed. He had a good laugh, Craig thought, all loud and care-free and real. "Yes, pet, we can certainly do that. Let's gather your tail and your cage and get you prettied up some, huh? If I'm going to show you off, I want to make sure you look your best."

Craig raised a sceptical brow and pointedly looked down on his black and blue skin, his torn-up stockings and come-smeared torso. "You think?" he said, voice dripping sarcasm.

His master's face was suddenly right in front of him. "You're right," he said. "You don't need any prettifying. The tail will go well with the mask, so let's get that back on you. But everything else, we can leave exactly the way it is." His face softened. "You look gorgeous, pet."

He wouldn't have thought so, not after the evening he'd just had, but Craig still had a blush in him. "Thank you, master."

Suddenly, his master got to his feet - and lifted Craig up right along with him. Craig squawked.

Giving his master the side-eye, he asked quietly: "If I take a guess at your last name, will you laugh at me?"

'Steve' grinned. "Guess away. I will neither confirm nor deny. But the next time you watch the Avengers on the news, just ask yourself this: How many people do you know who are named Steve, are way too strong for a regular person and look _exactly_ like Captain America?" 

Craig slowly shook his head. "This must be the weirdest night of my entire life."

"Well then," his master said, "ready to bedazzle the masses?"

Craig once more looked over his abused, defiled, welt-riddled and over-used body with the missing shoe and ripped stockings.

_You are gorgeous._

A smile stole its way onto his tired, but so very satisfied face.

"Yes, master."

  
  


  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have to say that in real life, I don't like the idea of conditioning, of training. In my opinion, it makes a person much too dependent on *that one dom* and that can make life difficult when that person is no longer available; after all, compatibility of what you learned with another dom's preferences is not always a given. In fanfic, though, I admit that I really enjoyed the experience. :P I hope you did, too.


	8. Preparations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys, I'm so sorry to have made you wait again! Somehow, I was convinced I'd already posted this last part. It's just a tiny bridge leading back to Kidnapping Tony. ...PhobiaRice, I think this is more like what you originally had in mind. Sorry it took me a bit to get there - I took a little detour. ; )

"I think Hans would make a good addition," Jonathan said. "We play well together, and if Stark is as bratty as advertised, I think he might appreciate the school teacher style."

Steve snorted. "He just might. I know I did. But that means we need to tell Hans who I actually am."

"You mean he hasn't figured it out yet?" Jonathan laughed at Steve. "Really?"

"I'm _American_ history," Steve said self-consciously. "Not every person the world over has my face memorized, you know?"

"Bullshit," Jonathan said easily. "Since the Battle of New York, they most certainly do."

Grumpy, Steve conceded the point. "But still. I'm pretty sure he bought our story of me being an uncanny look-alike. I mean, really, how likely are you to meet a legendary hero, Mister All-American Sunshine and all that rot, through your subby ex-student?"

"Point ceded," Jonathan laughed easily.

"I'm actually hoping that we were successful in tricking him. After all, I plan to sell Tony the Captain America who's kidnapping him as a fake. If I can't even trick someone who doesn't know me, how am I ever going to convince my teammate?"

"That's a big gamble," Jonathan said.

"Don't I know it," Steve said, sighing. "But I think I have a chance. After all, according to Natasha Tony is incapable of believing I might do something like this for real. So I figure I just have to make the fake similarity as ridiculously obvious as possible."

"Yeah? How are you planning on doing that?"

Steve smirked. "See, there's these really cheap, really bad Captain America Halloween masks..."

* * *

"...and so we'll be joining forces to mock-kidnap a celebrity," Jonathan concluded.

"That does sound intriguing," Hans said carefully, taking a sip of his linden infusion. "Who's the lucky guy?"

"Tony Stark," Steve said with a sparkle in his eyes. He laughed out loud as Hans did a spit-take.

"Are you fucking serious?!" It was funny to see the usually so collected teacher cursing.

"Yep," Steve said. "Nat says it's Tony's oldest fantasy."

"Nat?" Hans questioned. "What Nat... Oh." His eyes widened behind his spectacles. "Oh!"

Jonathan grinned at his colleague's expression. With a look at Steve, he confirmed: "Yes, he's the genuine article. Congratulations, you've spanked your naughty ex-student with the help of Captain America."

"Huh," said Hans and promptly cracked up.

* * *

"...then we'll switch from the ambulance to the helicopter and-"

"Wait a sec."

Steve looked up. "Yeah?"

Oleg looked at him with wide eyes. "Did you just say helicopter?"

Steve frowned. "Sure, why? D'you think it's too obvious? I suppose we could go by car all the way instead, but it would take a couple hours longer and I don't think-"

"Captain," Brady interrupted him nervously, "I don't believe Oleg meant to disagree. It's just - a helicopter? Really?"

"Yeah," Takahiro fell in, "isn't that a bit much just for doing a scene?"

Steve laughed, relieved. "Oh, is that what's got you worried?" He looked around to see seven nodding heads. Snorting, he explained: "Listen, this is _Tony Stark_ we're kidnapping. I don't think you quite appreciate the sheer wealth of the guy."

"You mean he's going to pay for all this?" Hans asked, unsure. "Wouldn't that somewhat ruin the surprise?"

Steve grinned. "He can pay for it and still not know what's going on. It's not like he's aware of every single transaction his company ever makes. Most of it goes through Pepper. "

Wide-eyed, Oleg asked: "Are you telling me Stark CEO Pepper Potts is going to arrange Stark's kidnapping?"

"Heh, no," Steve said, "Natasha is. But she knows how to sell things to Pepper to stop her from questioning them. If Natasha says a helicopter is needed for some Avengers thing, Pepper will pay for it no questions asked. If Natasha also implies that she intends to force Tony to take a break from his work, Pepper will literally push the money at us, and the helicopter, and probably a host of other things as well."

"Natasha Romanoff," Mike said, whistling. "This has suddenly gotten a helluva lot more professional."

"Oi," Steve complained, "am I not professional enough for you?"

"Steve," Mike said, with an air of long suffering, "you are _Captain America._ You're not supposed to be a professional at kidnapping millionaires for kinky purposes."

"But I am?" a smooth voice said from behind them.

Six people froze, while Steve and Takahiro grinned.

"Hi Nat," Steve said, waving happily at the spy. "Glad you could make it."

* * *

"Are you sure Tony's never been to that hut?" Steve asked.

"Quite," Natasha answered. "Pepper tells me that Tony occasionally buys all manner of properties on a whim, figuring they might make either good holiday retreats or future sites for expansion - and then promptly forgets about them afterwards. It's left to Pepper to figure out what to do with each of them. There must be at least a dozen places Tony has bought purely on paper and never gone to visit."

"And Pepper didn't question why you wanted to know this?"

Natasha shrugged. "I asked for a place that you and Tony could use to train without interruptions. She seemed quite happy to assist me in playing matchmaker."

Steve groaned. If anything went wrong and he didn't end up with a happy Tony at the end of the day, Pepper was going to skin him alive. Even without knowing about the more risqué aspects of this weekend retreat, Pepper would certainly hold him responsible if Tony got hurt.

He kinda wished Natasha hadn't involved her.

* * *

"So," Pepper concluded softly, leaning back in her chair with a smile. "Steve's going to kidnap Tony."

"It would appear so, Miss Potts," JARVIS agreed.

Pepper looked at the list of requisitions Natasha had handed in to her for a 'training exercise' that involved only Steve, Tony, and a lonely hut in the back-end of nowhere. Oh, and a helicopter, a chartered ambulance and food for nine people, but let's not look at that too closely, shall we?

Pepper propped her head in her hand and distractedly looked out the window. "Do you know who they drafted for this exercise?"

"I do not," JARVIS said, "I try not to pry unless it becomes necessary. I can, however, make some fairly accurate guesses."

"Just tell me if they're trustworthy," Pepper said.

"Every person involved has been vetted by both Captain Rogers and Miss Romanoff," JARVIS said. "The margin for error is extremely low. Also, Miss Romanoff will be piloting the helicopter and it can be assumed Captain Rogers will be present at all times. I believe Mister Stark will be in safe hands."

"Good," Pepper said. "Tony really needs a break."

Humming happily, she signed off on the requisitions with a flourish.

  
  



End file.
